The Consultant
by Lampito
Summary: Three Cupids are reduced to tears by a tough mission. Castiel, with 'Sheriff of Heaven' hat on, takes an idea from human businesses and decides to hire a specialist. Will Dean agree to wear the company 'uniform?  NOW with fanart - It's THE PANTS!
1. Chapter 1

This little bunny peeked shyly out from behind my tea mug as I was finishing up 'You Gotta Be Kidding'. It's one of those really annoying ones that's insistent enough that you have to listen to it, but it doesn't actually give you enough detail to work out exactly how a story might pan out. But sometimes, just getting down the first bit can encourage it, and more inspiration follows, so, I'll put a first chapter out there, and see what the Denizens of the Jimiverse think, and add to it if the bunny co-operates. I think it has potential.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of it is mine, I just dunk them in custard and throw them to the fangirls for the amusement of others.

**TITLE: **The Consultant

**SUMMARY: **When a third Cupid is reduced to tears by a tough mission, Castiel, with his 'Sheriff of Heaven' hat on, decides to take a leaf from human businesses, and hire a specialist. All he needs is some jargon. But will Dean agree to wear the company 'uniform'? No slash here, people, move along, move along...

**RATING:** T, just in case, because if this story does progress, you know that Dean will open his mouth sooner or later.

**BLAME: **I lay the blame for pestering me with these DAMNED PLOT BUNNIES squarely at the feet of the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Occasional Droppers-In of the Jimiverse. You are MERCILESS. I used to do garden. And crochet. And organise my bookshelves. Now I spend my time desperately attempting to expunge plot bunnies that drive me nuts. That, or I'm a shameless review addict who is constantly on the scrounge for her next fix...

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Castiel regarded the angel standing in front of him compassionately.

"Please do not blame yourself, Temeriel," he said gently, "You tried your very hardest. Nobody could have done more than you."

"I'm so s-s-s-sorry, Castiel," sobbed the Cupid, "I know this mission was i-i-important, but I just couldn't get them to, to, to," he broke off, and started howling in distress. "I've let everybody down," he wailed, "I've let them down, I've let humanity down, I've let you down, I've let Father down..."

"I do not believe that," Castiel told him firmly, "I do not believe that our Father would feel let down by you. I believe that your efforts and persistence would please Him. I believe that He would be proud of you, and your attempts in the face of such a difficult mission."

"You think?" sniffled Temeriel."

"I know," Castiel reassured him. He hated to see a little brother so upset, especially a Cupid. He stretched out his Grace in what Dean Winchester would no doubt refer to as a 'Heavenly chick-flick moment', and reassured the Temeriel.

He liked the junior cherubs; whether it was because of their very nature, or whether it was because of their work, they were usually happy, cheerful, friendly and optimistic, always looking for the best in people. And unlike some of the higher ranked angels, they were without haughtiness, guile or pride – they were contented with their lot. Humans would describe them as 'comfortable in their own skins'.

In fact, they were so comfortable, that even in the Heavenly realm, as multi-dimensional waveforms of celestial intent, they managed to get around in a state that would most closely be rendered into human understanding as 'undressed'.

Poor Temeriel burst into angelic tears again, wrapping his own subordinate Grace back around Castiel's, allowing himself to be consoled by the 'hug'. "I really wish I could've pulled it off," he cried, "They would make such a wonderful couple, if they would just let themselves see it..."

Castiel smiled. "If it is meant to be, we will find a way," he assured the Cupid. "This mission has been hard on you," he went on, "You need some time to recuperate. There is a vacation camp taking place that I would like you to attend to. I know that you and your brethren always find such missions... fulfilling."

Temeriel managed a little smile. "Ah, puppy love," he sighed, a little wistfully. "So wonderful at the time, but it never lasts, you know."

"Of course it does not," Castiel smiled gently, "It is not meant to endure. But the experience is beneficial in assisting those young people to mature into emotionally literate adults."

"They do enjoy it, though," the Cupid smiled, "A first hug, a first kiss, such novelty, such revelation!" He sighed again, happily this time. "When do I leave?" he asked eagerly.

"As soon as you have filed your report," Castiel replied. Temeriel's face fell again. "If we are to tackle this problem with a different strategy, we will need all the information you can provide," he reassured the Cupid, "It is in no way intended to reflect badly upon you, or imply that any sort of failure must be explained."

"Danael in Reception is scary," said Temeriel in a small voice. "She goes through my reports with a red pen."

"Danael is that she is," Castiel sympathised with his brother – the odd report he'd filed had come back covered with Danael's carefully penned corrections, in her imposing handwriting with serifs – "And to refrain from judging her shows humility." He paused. "A human I know once described her as 'A cranky old maiden aunt Virtue who's a Virtue because nobody would want to take her Virtue away'," he confided, "But that's because she does not approve of the vulgar language he sometimes includes in his prayers."

"She probably needs a hug," decided Temeriel, with a big smile. "Thank you, Castiel. I will go complete my report immediately."

"Your diligence, as ever, does you credit," Castiel praised him. "I look forward to the report from you next mission."

Temeriel took his leave. He would try to 'hug' Danael. And he would succeed. He always did. All the Cupids always did. Danael would scowl, and complain, and stand on her considerable dignity and seniority, and wave her red pen ferociously, but Castiel had a suspicion that she rather enjoyed the junior angels' affection, and he was far too charitable ever to call her on it.

However, that still left him with the problem of the mission. Temeriel had been the third Cupid to be assigned to it. He was one of the most experienced, and most successful Cupids in the Host, and for him to finally, tearfully, admit defeat, it had to be a difficult case.

Castiel turned the problem over in his mind. Sending a more powerful angel would, ultimately, not work. Oh, through application of brute force, a senior angel could accomplish the job, but most angels would balk at doing such a 'lowly' task, and do it grudgingly. And if it was not done with compassion and goodwill, and the benevolent finesse that was the Cupids' special talent, the match would never last. No, more Heavenly power would not work. The whole exercise turned on being able to prompt, persuade and prevail upon both parties to realise that they were attracted to each other. The bumbling, happy, good-natured beagle with adorable floppy ears would accomplish what the pit-bull with the bear-trap jaw could not.

Humans. They were intriguing. In some ways, so unvarying, and in others, utterly unpredictable. Angels, on the whole, had never been hugely successful in dealing with the unpredictability of humans. It was probably to do with free will. Or climate change. If you really wanted to understand what a human was thinking, you had a better chance if you just asked another human...

Castiel paused in his train of thought. It occurred to him that he did actually know a human who was extremely well versed in the male-meets-female idiom. Indeed, not only was he an expert in the field of male-meets-female, he was also highly skilled in the domain of male-copulates-with-female...

Human businesses did it all the time, he reasoned: they didn't have someone with a particular skill needed for a particular project, so they employed a specialist for a short time. A contractor. An advisor. A... consultant. All it seemed to require was an incantation in a very stylised, impenetrably esoteric form of language called 'jargon'.

As soon as Temeriel was done with his vacation camp mission, Castiel called upon him again.

"I have been thinking upon the matter of your previous mission," he told the Cupid, "And have decided that you should collaborate with a specialist in the area."

Temeriel looked confused. "We do not usually work in teams," he sounded doubtful, "Although if you think it would work, I will of course try my very best. I am sure that Kariel would be eager to assist, she has had much success with particularly socially inept subjects, and Nameniel is young, but very diligent and shows great patience, having proven to be most inventive when dealing with subjects with unfortunately pungent body odour..."

"I was not suggesting that you collaborate with other cherubs," Castiel clarified, "I was thinking that you could collaborate with a human specialist in the area. A consultant, if you will."

Temeriel's eyes went wide. "You mean... manifest before a human?" he sounded awed, "And... work with them?" His mind digested that idea the way an AP class Physics student might respond if asked, 'Hey, do you want to leave your schoolwork for a while and go do a project in Stephen Hawkings's lab instead?' "Wow," the Cupid breathed, "That would be... astonishing..."

"I believe it may be worth the attempt," Castiel said. "If we can persuade the right person to assist us. I would like you to observe closely, and learn as much as you can. It would be like serving an... internship, or perhaps a post-graduate course."

"Do you have a particular human in mind?" asked Temeriel reverently, "Who is it? A professor of psychology? A behavioural scientist? A Nobel laureate of medicine?"

"No." Castiel smiled at the eager cherub. "Temeriel, I am taking you to meet the Righteous Man."

Overwhelmed by the honour being done to him, a lowly cherub, Temeriel fainted.

Castiel cocked his head, using what had been referred to as his 'angel radar' to locate the human he wished to approach. Given the man's abilities, and Temeriel's diligence, he had high hopes that they could yet complete the mission.

Although, given the way Dean Winchester usually operated, it was extremely likely that Danael would burn any subsequent report.

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><p>Whaddyareckon? Reviews make the plot bunny whisper more loudly!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Temeriel was practically vibrating with excitement, and trepidation, and eagerness, and possibly a desire to throw up. The form he took when manifesting on the physical plane hopped from one foot to the other.

"Do you think he'll agree?" he asked Castiel anxiously. "Of course he'll agree," he chattered, answering his own question, "He is the Righteous Man, after all. What does he do? Is he a theologian? Ooh, ooh, is he a scholar?"

"He is not," Castiel informed him. "He is a Hunter. And he is decidedly... worldly."

"Well, I suppose that would be necessary, if he is an expert in male-female relations," nodded Temeriel. He gasped suddenly, looking worried. "Should I be wearing a trench coat?" he asked uncomfortably. "It's just that I don't know the protocol for meeting important humans, and I want to make a good impression..."

Castiel considered the question. Dean teased him about his trench coat, called him a Holy Tax Accountant and made derogatory comments about its wrinkliness, and its sometime inappropriateness in hot climates, at barbeques and, on one memorable occasion, in a sauna. And yet, it was a part of him, an unmistakeable aspect of his accustomed vessel, and he knew from experience that he would notice its absence, and miss it. He would feel more comfortable naked than being otherwise dressed, but without his trench coat (he knew this from another memorable occasion). And Dean had, after all, once said to him, "Don't ever change." And humans had a saying they used for such situations.

"I think," he said thoughtfully, "That whenever you are meeting a new person, the best strategy is just to relax, and 'be yourself'." He paused. "And don't order off the menu," he added, not wanting to leave anything out.

Temeriel smiled. "I can do that!" he said happily. "I'm doing it right now!" He gestured down at his physical self. It was the body of a middle-aged, quite chubby man, with dark curly hair, rosy cheeks, and a face with laugh lines from smiling a lot. When will we meet him?"

"Momentarily," Castiel assured him, "First of all, it is important to check that he is not in the middle of doing... something." He found himself on the verge of saying 'someone' instead of 'something', but edited himself.

Temeriel looked confused. "Like what?"

"There are many... activities that humans regard as being private, and not to be disturbed, except under the absolute direst of circumstances, and sometimes, not even then," Castiel tried to explain. "For example, when a person must attend to the excretory functions associated with a healthy human body, that is traditionally done in private, in a designated facility, or at least as discreetly as possible. Certain other activities requiring a state of undress, such as changing clothes or ablutions, are also considered private, and will only be shared with a very close associate, and then only by specific invitation. Also, any activity that is erotic in nature, is regarded as private, and intrusion will cause great offence."

Temeriel cocked his head in a gesture remarkably similar to the one that Castiel used when unsure. "But I have seen couples embrace, and kiss, very passionately, and very erotically, in very public places," he said.

"Kissing is an exception," Castiel went on, "It may be undertaken in public, yet is regarded as a 'private' activity, in that the people concerned will not want their personal space intruded upon during the act."

"Personal space?" Temeriel frowned in confusion. "What is personal space?"

"It is a difficult concept," Castiel admitted, "One that I have great difficulty in understanding. However, if anyone is qualified to instruct you upon the nature and implications of personal space, it is Dean Winchester."

As he spoke, Temeriel was making notes in a small book. "This is a lot to take in at once," he said anxiously, "Perhaps you could give me some examples of really, absolutely private erotic activities?"

"It can be difficult to determine what counts, and what does not," agreed Castiel. "However, I can tell you that Special activities, such as Special Cuddles, and Special Me-Time, should be regarded as inviolate."

"I am not familiar with that terminology," Temeriel said, jotting away. His eyes widened as Castiel enlightened him. "Really?" He looked non-plussed. "Goodness me." He made some more notes.

"You will find that there are many euphemisms for coitus, and masturbation," Castiel warned him, "And this man knows all of them. I believe he may in fact have coined some of them."

Temeriel frowned thoughtfully, then drew a table in his notebook, so he could be prepared to keep a record of any further terms as he became aware of them.

"Also, observing pornographic material should not be undertaken in the company of others," Castiel instructed. "It is deemed 'weird'."

"Deemed... weird..." Temeriel noted carefully. He looked thoughtful. "How do we make sure the Righteous Man isn't doing anything, er, private, before we manifest?" Temeriel asked. "If we peek, just to check, doesn't that count as, well, intruding on privacy?"

"I will show you," Castiel promised him. "We must observe without looking."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Temeriel followed Castiel's lead, like letting somebody else navigate, and both of them stretched out their Grace, filtering out the sounds of a million souls, before homing in on one...

They heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a sigh.

"Is that him?" asked Temeriel, wide-eyed.

Another deep breath, then a small moan.

"He's not in pain, is he?" the cherub asked anxiously.

A gasp; a louder, longer, tremulous moan.

"Oh. _Oh. _ He sounds... occupied," commented Temeriel.

A hearty humming, a low, throaty whisper of 'Ohhhh, yeah...'

"Er, should we, perhaps, wait for a little while?" suggested the cherub.

A drawn out groan, a rustle of linen, a panting plea of 'Oh, God, yes...'

"I really don't want to intrude..." insisted Temeriel.

A low grunt, almost animalistic, rising to a moan, a drawn out breathy "Ohhhh, that's so good, ohhhhh..."

"That is Dean," confirmed Castiel, "Follow me."

before Temeriel could ask for clarification about Special activities, Castiel had taken wing, and it was all the cherub could do to catch up with the senior angel...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean Winchester was Not Happy.

Admittedly, Dean Winchester spent quite a lot of the time being Not Happy, but that was only to be expected in his line of work. When a poltergeist dropped a very fine example of an 18th century bidet, in Chinese porcelain, on his head, he was Not Happy. When a rampaging werewolf attempted to dismember him, his brother, his dog, and his car, he was Not Happy. When a vengeful spirit jumped his little brother, locked him in a box, and started filling in the basement, he was Not Happy. When a Hunt went south, he and Sam spent an evening stitching each other up, they were covered in swamp muck and there was no hot water, he was Not Happy. It was fair to say that there were a lot of unavoidable Not Happy things for him to be Not Happy about.

However, when something that he considered unnecessary transpired and made him Not Happy, he was, well, _really_ Not Happy.

He'd been squirming around on his bed, enjoying a piece of the most perfect peach pie he'd eaten in ages: the crust was buttery, flaky perfection, the filling was sweet (but retained just the right degree of delightful tartness) of optimal consistency. One moment he was making orgasmically happy noises, partly to see if he could get a rise out of Sam (who sat on his own bed, with his laptop, resolutely ignoring his big brother's writhing and moaning) but mostly just because the pie really was that good, and the next...

"Hello, Dean."

"Mmmmm, oh, that's so..._ kaaaark_!" Dean choked on a piece of golden-brown crust, fell off his bed, and dropped his pie. "Damn it, Cas!" He glowered at the angel who was practically sitting on him. "Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? Personal space!"

"My apologies," intoned the angel seriously. "Dean, I have a request. I require your assistance with a matter of great importance."

Dean wasn't listening. He was gazing forlornly at the crumbled, squashed remains of his piece of pie. "Look at that," he muttered, "That's a tragedy. That's a fucking tragedy, right there. How could you do that, Cas?" He sounded like a little boy who'd just been told that a favourite uncle had just stolen his prized bicycle. "How could you do that? A man's pie is sacrosanct, Cas! You cannot screw around with a man's pie!"

"I am sorry to have damaged your pastry dessert, Dean," apologised Castiel, waving a hand. The squelchy mess disappeared, to be replaced by a perfectly reformed piece resting on a paper napkin on the bed.

"You didn't have to do that, Cas," Sam told the angel from the other bed, "That's the third piece he's eaten this morning."

"Er," Dean peered around Castiel, "Cas, who is that?"

Behind the angel stood a man. He was tall. He was middle aged. He was chubby. He was naked. Extremely naked. And he was concentrating intensely as he wrote in a small notebook.

"Pie... is... sacrosanct," he muttered to himself as he jotted.

"Dean, I would like to introduce you to someone," Castiel explained. Extending a hand towards the chubby nudist, he continued, "Dean, this is Temeriel. Temeriel, may I present Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man."

Temeriel stopped jotting, and looked up, an expression of wonder on his face.

Dean cleared his throat, forced a smile onto his face, and stuck out his hand. "Hello, Temeriel," he said.

The chubby man broke into a huge smile, strode across the room, and grabbed Dean in a bear hug. "Hello, Dean Winchester!" he crowed happily, "It is such an honour to actually meet you! I've heard so much about you, but never thought that I'd ever get a chance to actually see you with my own eyes! Things like this just don't happen to Cupids..."

"Eeeep!" squeaked Dean. "Er, personal space..."

"It would be prudent to release him and step back now, Temeriel," instructed Castiel, "Humans require constant movement of air in and out of their lungs in order to remain alive. It is possible to infer that this requirement is not being met by observing the body's responses. For example, do you see how his eyes are widened, and his mouth is open, and he is making those little gasping noises? Also note the hint of blueness beginning to tinge his mucous membranes. These all demonstrate that he needs to breathe again immediately."

"Oh, I'm sorry," apologised Temeriel, stepping back. His little notebook reappeared in his hand. "Just let me make a quick note of that..."

Dean drew in a gasping breath, as Sam asked, "Cas, why are you here, with your... colleague?"

"Hello Sam," said Castiel. "Temeriel, this is Dean's brother, Sam."

"Er, hello, Temeriel," Sam smiled a little desperately, "No hug needed, reall-_erk_!"

"Sam Winchester!" Temeriel hugged him gleefully, "You saved the world! Dean must be so proud of you!"

"Er, yeah," managed Sam, two octaves above his usual voice.

"I'm so glad you stopped the Apocalypse!" Temeriel went on, "It's horrible, when family fights, I got so upset last time, oh, the nasty things two of my big brothers said to each other, of course I was just a fledgling at the time, but I remember how sad it made everybody, and this planet is just such a wonderful place, with such wonderful people, it would be such a shame to see one of Father's most amazing works be destroyed... Castiel, that's the gasping thing, right? And the turning blue?"

"It is, Temeriel," agreed Castiel, "Let go now."

Sam sat down heavily on his bed, gasping like a fish out of water. "Pleased to meet you, too," he wheezed.

"Cas," said Dean, in what Castiel recognized to be a dangerously pleasant tone, "I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for you dropping in on us, ruining my pie, in order to introduce us to a fat guy with no understanding of personal space, the etiquette of introductions, or the concept of minimal acceptable clothing. Whatever it is, I'm just dying to hear it."

"Dean, I need your assistance," replied Castiel. "Temeriel is one of the Host's most capable Cupids."

"Really? I thought he was a highly fancied favourite for Creepy Pervert Guy Of The Month," snarked Dean, "Because the whole naked hugging thing, hot chicks waggling bottles of chocolate body paint, yes, fat naked guys who look like they're applying for the post of Chief Donut Taster, no."

"What you see is an Earthly manifestation of a Cupid's nature," explained the angel. "Hugging is their way of shaking hands."

"Last time I looked, I never threatened to asphyxiate someone by shaking their hand," Dean grumbled. "So, what sort of help do you need?"

"As I was saying, Temeriel is one of the Host's most able Cupids," Castiel reiterated, "Yet recently he was unable to complete an extremely important mission. He is the third Cupid to attempt it, and it proved beyond his capability." Temeriel looked like a kicked Beagle. "Through no fault of his own," Castiel added reassuringly. "The mission was an extremely difficult one."

"So, what does that have to do with Dean?" Sam asked.

"It occurred to me that human businesses employ contractors with specialist knowledge when they have a particularly difficult problem to deal with," Castiel replied, "And it must be acknowledged that angels have particular difficulty in understanding the human psyche. Even Cupids, who are Heaven's experts in such matters. It is the nature of free will that makes humans so difficult to... predict." He cocked his head at Dean. "You, Dean, have a well-developed understanding of the machinations of male-female pairing. Being human yourself, you have knowledge, insights, and understanding that an angel, even a Cupid, can never hope to achieve alone. Therefore, in this particular instance, I am seeking your help. I wish to employ you in a consultative role, in order to assist Temeriel to complete this mission. The insights and techniques he stands to learn from you will be invaluable to him in his work."

Dean looked nonplussed. "So, you want to hire me to teach Tiny Tim here about the birds and the bees?"

Castiel considered his words before replying. "Not exactly. I wish to retain your services as a specialist consultant, and bestow upon you the temporary rank of Acting Cupid."

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><p>Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Writhing Breathily on the Bed Of Life! (Or a great big piece of fruit pie, if you prefer.)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean laughed, then stopped laughing, and blinked in bemusement. "You're not kidding. You're serious."

Sam, on the other hand, blinked in bemusement, then stopped blinking, and laughed.

"I am indeed serious," intoned Castiel, "I have assigned three Cupids to this mission, yet their best and most dedicated efforts have not been able to orchestrate the desired encounter." Temeriel looked like a kicked Beagle again. Dean wondered vaguely whether the Cupid and Sam could team up to run courses or something. _'Learn Puppy-Dog Eyes In Five Easy Lessons – Get Whatever You Want For The Rest Of Your Life!'_

"Yeah, because Dean is such an expert in romantic, long-term relationships," Sam grinned. "I mean, if you just want them to jump on each other, tear their clothes off, and swing from the light fittings in an inappropriately public place, he's definitely the man for the job, but..."

"He is extremely knowledgeable and practised in the idiom of introduction and personable engagement, with erotic intent," clarified Castiel. "So far, the Cupids have not even been able to achieve that."

"So, what's the problem?" Dean asked, while Sam continued to chortle away most uncharitably, "If they're actually destined to be a happy couple, why can't you just push them in each other's direction?"

"It isn't always that easy," Temeriel said, sounding wistful, "There's more to it than that. It's just that, well, I'm a Cupid, but I'm not a human. Human attraction is such a complicated thing, with so many factors. There's so much about humans that we just do not understand. I've done some work on the theory of it, though," he said a little more enthusiastically, "And tried to distil what we do know into a more systematic, less subjective approach."

"Yeah?" Sam stopped snickering, and looked intrigued. "What, sort of like a Grand Unified Theory of Human Attraction?"

Temeriel's face lit up. "Yes!" he declared happily, "That's _exactly_ it! Oh, well put! May I use that?" His notebook appeared again. "It relies on all sorts of assumptions, of course," he went on, dropping into a discordantly professorial manner, "And any approximation is only as good as the assumptions it's based on, but I've derived a couple of equations..." he began to write on a fresh page of the notepad Sam had been using. "So, this variable is the male's age, this is the female's age, this is his income, this represents her level of education..."

"Whatever happened to free will?" Dean asked Castiel. "Can't you just let them get together of their own accord?"

"...This is the volume of things he would want to store in a garage, rounded up to the nearest cubic ten feet, of course," Temeriel went on explaining his theory to Sam, "And this is the number of hair care products she keeps in the shower, this is the frequency with which he trims his toenails – with the proviso that we assume it approaches zero if he bites them – and this is ratio of her live pets to stuffed toys..."

"It is not about forcing individuals on each other, Dean," Castiel reassured him, "Cupids simply do all that they can to facilitate the process of discovering mutual attraction."

"...This is the number of times he breaks wind audibly during a meal, this is the percentage of a double closet her possessions would occupy, this is the number of drinks that render him unable to converse normally, this factor is her dress size, divided by her body image dissatisfaction..."

"Why is it so important that these two get together anyway?" Dean wanted to know.

"...His number of gaming platforms, percentage of gluteus maximus usually covered by her underwear..."

"Because their descendants will be important to humanity," Castiel replied.

"...Hours per week he watches sports, hours per week she reads trashy magazines, OR does crochet..."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "If this is another Heavenly machination to set up a their kids for one of your crusades against Hell, Lucifer, evil in general, or even country music, forget it," he snapped. "I will not lift a finger to help fuck up anyone else's lives from before they're even born!"

"...Extent to which he is prepared to humiliate himself for sex, volume of chocolate she can consume without feeling guilty..."

"Their potential is nothing like what Fate bestowed upon you and Sam," Castiel reassured him. "Should they fall in love and marry, their family will accomplish extraordinary things. Their eldest daughter will become a physicist, and solve the problem of energy storage and rapid recharge in electric vehicles, leading them to become a low-priced and viable transport modality for most people in the developed world. Great advances in generation of base load electricity from non-fossil fuel sources will be a side-effect of her work. Their younger daughter will become a medical scientist, and will contribute directly to the development of a cheap and effective vaccine for malaria, and will lay the basis for development of a cure for HIV, and several forms of cancer that are viral in origin. Their son will become a teacher, and become a champion of no-nonsense sex education in schools, and teaching religious belief and science as two completely separate subjects..."

"...And I had to include the ironing factor, because if they don't have a p-value of less than 0.01 on the correlation, it just was never meant to be..."

"Further," Castiel went on, "_His_ son, in turn, will become a diplomat, and will do crucial work in promoting good relations of countries of the Middle East with each other, and with the Western world. One of his grandchildren will begin work to develop a nutritionally rich novel cereal crop that is drought tolerant and disease resistant, which will contribute to alleviating world hunger. Several generations later, another descendant will become a well respected, much loved and benevolent reformer of church doctrine, Pope Bernadette I..."

Sam frowned thoughtfully at the page of scribbles. "I think you've missed something really important," he said to Temeriel, "I think you need to include, oh, let's call it the Bathroom Coefficient." Temeriel nodded to prompt him. "It would take into account willingness of both of them to deal with the movement of the toilet seat and lid into the raised or lowered position. I think if you go back through your raw data, you'll find that it's really crucial."

Temeriel looked at Sam with the light of understanding dawning. "You know, you're absolutely right!" he said excitedly, "I just never realised before what it was, because angels, well, we just don't think of that sort of thing!" He began scribbling in his notebook again. "You see, this is just the sort of insight that we stand to gain by collaborating with a human."

"Don't forget to include something to correlate that with diligence of changing the toilet roll on the holder immediately it becomes necessary," added Sam, as Temeriel nodded, "If they can't get past the bathroom issues, then, well, you might as well save your arrows..."

Dean stared at the other occupants of the room. "You're insane," he stated flatly, "All of you, you're insane. Sam, your brain overheated and melted down at school long ago, Castiel, I think you were just hatched like that, and Temeriel, it's probably brought on by hypothermia, on account of not wearing any clothes..."

"Nonetheless, Dean," Castiel pressed, "If there is the slightest chance that we can get these two people to realise their compatibility, humanity stands to gain enormously from their union. The angels, the Cupids, cannot do this unassisted. Please. We need your help."

"Peace in the Middle East, solving world food shortages, clean energy, reform of the church – it all sounds suspiciously like saving the world, bro," Sam encouraged him.

Dean groaned. It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. Appealing to his sense of duty, and asking nicely, it was practically playing dirty...

"Just say I was to go along with this hare-brained idea," he scowled, "What would it entail? How does one become an Acting Cupid?"

"It would mean temporarily granting you the powers, abilities and attributes of a low-ranked angel, a cherub," Castiel told him.

Dean looked interested. "Does that mean I could... smite stuff?" he asked casually.

"As a rule, no," Castiel replied, as Dean's face fell. "Cupids are happy and optimistic, and only engage in conflict in the most exceptional of circumstances. They find violence to be... distressing."

"I had to smite a spider, once," Temeriel piped up. "I'd just introduced this couple, and they both turned out to be arachnophobic, so I had to get rid of it, or they just would've been so traumatised that they'd never even speak to each other again because of the unhappy association." His face became forlorn. "The poor little thing," he quavered, bottom lip trembling, "It really wasn't that big, it was just minding its own business, living a happy, spidery little life, she was getting ready to lay eggs..." he sniffed, his eyes swimming, "But I had to smite her, and her poor little corpse just lay there, all shrivelled up; she was quite a pretty spider, but in the end, she just looked like a sad, unwanted sultana..." Sam pushed a box of tissues towards the upset cherub.

"Huh. They're lovers, not fighters. Just my luck," grumped Dean.

"You would of course be assigned the accoutrements of Cupid-dom, being the bow and arrows," Castiel continued, "The ability to discern certain thoughts and emotions in humans, and to transport yourself, and to move unseen and undetected amongst humans when you wish to. And, of course, anyone who tries to hit you will in all likelihood inflict soft tissue injury on themselves, at the very least."

Dean looked calculating. "Mind reading and unpunchable," he nodded, "You know, I might just take the job, if only to have those for a while."

"Dean," Sam spoke sternly.

"What?" demanded Dean. "Think of the possibilities, Sam! I could clean up at poker! And any asshole who wanted to take his money back would just break his hands on my face!"

"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Sam, "Cas has come to you for help, and offered to make you an acting cherub, that's an acting _angel_, Dean, and all you can think of doing is cheating at cards?"

"I'd think of it as a perk of the contract," Dean smirked smugly.

"Temeriel would of course brief you, and work closely with you," Castiel said.

"What?" yelped Dean. "I thought the whole idea was for me to do this job, because the Cupids can't!"

"That is so," Castiel agreed, "But the opportunity for Temeriel to learn from your expertise and experience, and pass that on to other cherubs, would be invaluable."

"Cas, I don't mean to be rude here," began Dean, "But I really don't think I could work that well with a fat, naked guy trailing around behind me, hugging me, taking notes, looking like a St Bernard who's had his milk bone snatched away any time I step on a bug, and generally being so cheerful and good-natured that I think I'd probably end up wanting to stab him with a plastic spork."

Castiel cocked his head, and frowned. "I believe that the mission will benefit from having Temeriel accompany you," he insisted, "He is one of the most senior of the Cupids, and has many admirable qualities. He is diligent, persistent, patient, and discreet, generous of spirit, and meticulous in his work. If he were a human, he would be described as an highly professional and capable worker..."

When they heard the growl behind them, they turned to look.

Temeriel was on hands and knees, having a tug of war with Jimi, the Winchesters' dog. The half-Hellhound Rottweiler stooped into a play bow, his tail wagging furiously, and whuffed happily behind his end of the toy.

"Jimi is an excellent judge of character," Sam pointed out.

Dean sighed, and dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, I just know I am totally going to regret this," he moaned. "Okay, then, so, how do we do this?"

"I have taken the liberty of doing some research about how specialists are engaged by various businesses," Castiel announced a little shyly, "And the essential items are an incantation, and a handshake, then you are presented with your tools of the trade."

"All right, all right," Dean griped, "I'll help you with your match-making. But I'm not going to make any promises. If me and the Donut King here can't make it happen, then it just wasn't meant to be, and we leave 'em alone."

"Understood."

"Right then." Dean stood up, and squared his shoulders. "Go ahead and Cupidify me."

"First, I must recite the incantation of corporate engagement," Castiel told him.

Sam looked confused. "I've never heard of a corporate incantation," he said doubtfully.

"I have observed the practices and customs of human companies, and it is extremely important," Castiel informed him, "So I would prefer to do this as correctly as possible." The angel cleared his throat, and began to recite.

_"Our mission is the enhancement of deliverables through empowerment of capability,_  
><em>Aspirational vision of owning the dialoguing process,<em>  
><em>Collectively implement the forging of interactions for a viable shared commitment to vision,<em>  
><em>Getting ownership of outputs and outcomes workshopping a level playing field,<em>  
><em>Exploring the space in pursuit of excellence and face time,<em>  
><em>Realign and repurpose world-class synergistic knowledge management enterprises,<em>  
><em>Leveraging benchmarked core business from bendable learnings,<em>  
><em>Take it offline, drill down and park it.<em>  
><em>Going forward, we are on the same page, outside the box –<em>  
><em>Touch base before you shoot the puppy,<em>  
><em>Even if you don't have the bandwidth to get the metrics pregnant."<em>

Both Winchesters blinked at him.

"That was either the most concentrated burst of diarrhoeal management-speak meaningless jargon I've ever heard," Sam said, "Or the most brilliant avant-garde piece of improv retro-beat poetry yet composed."

"I don't feel very Cupidic after that," confessed Dean. "I do feel like I want to go out and find people with briefcases and expensive sunglasses and bluetooth things in their ears and hit them repeatedly with a rock until their skulls smash and their brains leak out, but not so angelic..."

"Nonetheless, it is a vitally important aspect of engaging the services of a consultant," intoned Castiel seriously. He held out his hand. "Welcome on board, Dean," he said, with much portent.

Dean shook the angel's hand. "Er, yeah, thank you, Castiel, I look forward to aligning my bendable learnings with your level playing field," he replied.

Temeriel had left off his game with the dog, and was at Castiel's side. "Oh, this is just wonderful!" he said. He handed a small gold bow and a quiver of arrows to Castiel.

"Here is your bow, and your arrows," Castiel announced. "With these, take up your post as Acting Cupid. As is fitting to your new position, I give to you your Cupid's weapons, Cupid's powers, Cupid's abilities..."

Dean took the bow and quiver from Castiel.

There was a very small hiccup in the fabric of the space-time continuum. Dean barely noticed it, but he did notice that he was suddenly quite chilly as Castiel finished:

"...And Cupid's uniform. Welcome to Team Cupid."

* * *

><p>Yes, I am personally offended by stupid corporate jargon, and have been known to play Bullshit Bingo during large work meetings. Not always terribly discreetly.<p>

Reviews are the Implemented Enhancements Dialoguing Commitment with the Empowered Deliverables Benchmarking the Viable Alpha Spaces of... oh, frigate, please leave reviews, they entertain me, and inspire me, and I really enjoy getting them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lampito: **Go on, Dean.

**Dean (pouting):** No.

**Lampito: **Go on.

**Dean (still pouting):** No.

**Lampito: **Dean...

**Dean:** No! I won't!

**Lampito: **Under the circumstances, it's a reasonable request.

**Dean:** That's your fault.

**Lampito: **Your fans want you to. Don't you want to make your fans happy?

**Dean (with a shudder):** Not if it involves custard...

**Lampito: **Dean, if you don't do what you're told, I'll call DDD&SSS: Denizens' Dean Disciplining and Sam Spanking Services...

**Dean:** You wouldn't!

**Lampito: ***waggles phone*

**Dean:** *sighs deeply, in a most put-upon fashion* All right.

**Lampito: **And make it convincing.

**Dean (muttering mutinously):** Yeah, yeah.

*He stands on coffee table, throws arms in the air, smiles a big cheerful smile and dances happily on the spot*

**Dean: **_PUDDING! ! !_

**Lampito: **There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?

**Dean:** Yes it was. And write my clothes back on.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"Castiel!" cried Temeriel anxiously, "He's doing it again! I didn't touch him, but he's doing the gasping thing, and his breathing sounds very wrong! What do I do?" The cherub wrung his hands in worry.

"Sam is not experiencing respiratory distress, Temeriel," Castiel reassured the Cupid, as Sam writhed on the floor, "Quite the opposite. That is a form of laughter, indicating that the person is experiencing intense amusement. Notice that his face is going red, rather than blue. Also, listen for the characteristic noise when he exhales..."

"Hahahahahahahaha!" went Sam, clutching at his midriff. "Uniform! Uniform! Unifo-o-o-o-o-o-o-hahahahahahahaha!"

"Saaaaaaaaaam!" Dean looked like a deer in the cross-hairs. "Caaaaaaas! CAAAAAAAS! Naked, Cas, NAKED! NAKED!"

Castiel looked confused. "Of course you are naked," he agreed, "That is the standard appearance of a Cupid when manifesting in the physical plane. You knew this."

Temeriel nodded happily. "It's all about just being yourself," he asserted. "It's a very attractive self," he added, patting Dean reassuringly on the arm, "You have nothing to be self-conscious about."

"That's you, bro," sniggered Sam, "The Living Sex God, his real self, in all his glory, all his rosy pink, naked glory..."

"Although," Temeriel went on thoughtfully, "You are a little, well, I don't want to sound mean, but the word 'scrawny' just popped into my head, no, that does sound mean, I'll say that you're a little less..._substantial_ than what we'd expect in a Cupid.."

"Now now, Temeriel," Sam wagged a finger in mock sternness, "Don't you go teasing Dean just because he's not as big and jolly as all the other Cupids. You'll give him a body image problem..."

"I cannot walk around naked!" snapped Dean angrily. "Not in front of total strangers! Not in front of anybody! Especially not in front of him!" He pointed accusingly at his laughing brother.

"You will not be walking around naked in front of anybody, Dean," Castiel reminded him, "You will have to concentrate and deliberately decide to manifest to anyone in your Cupidic role."

"Then how come Sam can see me?" Dean demanded. "Or did he just remember some hilarious equation from an AP chemistry class?"

"Well of course _he_ can see you," Temeriel humphed, "He's your _brother_! We can all see our _brothers_. Imagine how much confusion there would be if we couldn't see each other!" Dean muttered murderously. It wasn't _fair,_ it really wasn't: naked invisibility might almost have been tolerable if he'd been able to use it to prank his little brother mercilessly...

"Besides which, you spend a great deal of time naked in front of women you have barely met," Castiel pointed out, sending Sam off into fresh gales of hilarity, "So I do not understand why you should find this disconcerting."

"Well, I won't do this!" Dean said angrily, almost stamping his foot, "I will not walk around seeing myself naked!" He petulantly dropped his bow and quiver.

There was a small hiccup in the fabric of the space-time continuum...

"Hey!" Dean looked down, and found himself clothed once more. "Well, that's more like it," he humphed bad-temperedly, "You can think of me as an undercover Cupid, if you like..."

"I did nothing," Castiel informed him, "You laid aside your Cupidic capacity, and so you are once again completely human."

Dean looked dubious, then leaned down to pick up the weapons again.

_*hic*_

"Whoa, a little warning before you bend over and do that, bro," Sam chortled, "That's a view I expect only your lady friends ever want..."

Dean let out a little shriek, standing upright and spinning around. "Well, what were you doing looking, anyway?" he demanded.

"Bit difficult to miss, when the full moon comes out," Sam replied. "Goat boy," he added, _sotto voce._

"You're just jealous," hissed Dean, "Just because yours have shrivelled away through neglect..."

"Stop it!' Temeriel's voice cut through the brewing argument. "Stop it!" he repeated, wringing his hands anxiously again, "There's no need to be mean to each other! You're brothers!"

Both Winchesters stared at him.

"Cupids find arguments... confronting," explained Castiel. "They prefer to see the best in people's natures, and find any sort of malevolence or conflict to be... distressing. Particularly between family members."

"You're brothers," the cherub mumbled again unhappily, "You shouldn't fight, you shouldn't be mean to each other, two of my big brothers were so _mean_ to each other..." he sounded worryingly on the verge of tears again.

"They are not being mean," Castiel reassured the Cupid, "It is just the way they interact." Temeriel gazed at him doubtfully. "Isn't that right, Sam, Dean?"

"What? Oh, yeah, totally," said Sam hastily, "We don't mean to be... mean. It's just..."

"Brotherly banter," supplied Dean, forcing himself to smile.

"Yeah, absolutely, affectionate brotherly banter," Sam agreed.

"They are very close," Castiel went on, "And love each other dearly, although they do not articulate it clearly very often." Temeriel looked at the Winchesters with hopeful puppy-dog eyes.

"Um, yeah, that's, er," said Dean, "Really, we do, er, you know, like Cas said..."

"It's true, Temeriel," said Sam serenely, with a big sunny smile, putting an arm around Dean's shoulders, "We don't say it very often, but Dean's my big brother, and I love him, and I know he loves me, right Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean bared his teeth, and whispered for his Sam's ears only, "Tonight, you die in your sleep..."

It seemed to have done the trick, though, because Temeriel's happy smile reappeared. "That's how it should be," he sighed contentedly.

"Except for the naked thing," muttered Dean, dropping his bow and quiver again, and giving Sam a glare, while his brother smirked back. "Here's a little piece of information you can put in your book, Tem – naked brother hugging is never okay. Never. Not even if you've been searching for each other for twenty years, and you suddenly find each other in a nudist retreat."

Temeriel looked confused. "I hug my brothers all the time, and they hug me," he said, "We never bother with clothes."

"That's because you're fat and unnaturally happy and touchy-feely and always naked, and cannot get any creepier," Dean grumped, "For humans, it's not cool." Temeriel looked even more confused, but dutifully noted Dean's comments in his book. "Why do I have to be naked, anyway?" Dean went on. "I've seen paintings, pictures of cherubs, wearing little towel shorts..."

"That's a fairly modern addition to the depiction of cherubs," Sam commented. "The male form was celebrated in Greek and Roman culture, where artistic renderings of cherubs began, and it was only in the last three centuries or so that artists felt compelled to add a diaper to cater for changing public sensibilities."

Castiel frowned. "It is most irregular," he said, "Diapers are usually only worn by adults with incontinence or an infantilism fetish, neither of which apply to Dean..."

"I am NOT going to wear a diaper!" yapped Dean irritably. "I'd rather go naked that wear a diaper!"

"Well, no problem then, bro," grinned Sam.

Dean sighed. "Look," he tried again, "There must be something that I can wear without, you know, interfering with the whole Cupid shtick too much? Something that's in character, without being downright creepy, weird, or possibly illegal in some more conservative states?"

"I shall give the matter some thought, since it is important to you," conceded Castiel.

"Good. Great. Thank you," said Dean. "But for now, we need to know everything you can tell us about this mission."

"Us?" queried Sam. "Us? Last I looked, you are the one joining Team Cupid to go get two people hooked up."

"Yep," grinned Dean, "I am the hot-shot, upwardly mobile professional who's been headhunted by the big corporation. You are going to be my cubicle farm slave, my Girl Friday, labouring over a hot laptop to do the ground work drudgery."

"I'm cool with doing research," Sam noted airily, "Especially since I'll get to keep my clothes on."

"You're such a prude, I'm pretty sure you shower with your eyes closed," muttered Dean. "So, where is this Hunt?"

"It's not a Hunt, Dean," Temeriel corrected him a little reproachfully, "It's a mission, to bring together two young people, and help them realise they can have a wonderful future together..."

"Maybe that's where you've been going wrong," commented Dean, "Maybe approaching this as a Hunt, like we would any other job, will work better than your approach has."

"Except without the ganking at the end," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, totally, there will be no ganking at the end," Dean promised.

Temeriel looked unsure, but Castiel said, "Dean's idea may well have merit. I have told you, there will be much you may learn from observing how the Winchesters work. The couple concerned are in Colorado," he told Dean and Sam, "I am inferring that you will wish to drive there, rather than test out your Cupidly capacity to transport yourself?"

"Damn right," sniffed Dean, "I don't want to risk dropping my Baby halfway there, or something. And AngelAir upsets my guts enough when you do it – I do not want to spend the next week having Francis here try to feed me bran cereal, bran muffins and his very favourite high-fibre sawdust sausages."

"They were tofu sausages, Dean," scowled Sam, "A healthy source of protein without the saturated fat of sausages made from low-grade meat..."

"It's weird, it's unnatural, and that stuff makes men turn into women. They grow tits," humphed Dean. "It's certainly turned your hair female."

"Is this the banter thing again?" Temeriel asked Castiel tentatively, "Because it sounds a bit, well, snippy..."

"I believe you will become familiar with their mode of interaction," Castiel reassured him, "And will learn to identify 'banter'."

"So, then, we will see you in Colorado when we get there," Dean told the angels, "And you can fill us in on what you know about our targets."

" 'Charges'," corrected Temeriel, "We like to use the words 'charges'. We are helpers, shepherds, on a mission to get them together, not... target them."

Sam looked thoughtful. "If you are shepherds," he said, "Wouldn't that make the people you herd together 'sheep'?"

"Terminology notwithstanding," Castiel cut in smoothly, before Temeriel could take Sam to task over uncharitable nomenclature of the people that Cupids were assigned to pair up, "We will meet with you again when you get to Colorado."

"But right now, I need a drink," Dean stated firmly. "All that naked hugging is enough to unsettle a man's nerves. I may even need to reassure myself of my masculinity by seeking out female company." He picked up his jacket. "Don't wait up Samantha," he smirked.

"Have fun, Goat Boy," Sam muttered.

"Bitch," Dean shot back.

"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Sam did an unexpectedly authentic goat impression.

Temeriel watched Dean go in some confusion. "I don't understand why the whole clothes thing is so important to him," he confided to Sam and Castiel, "Since he is imagining himself undressed, with a woman, right now."

"Some things, Temeriel, you just have to put down as A Dean Thing," Sam told him ruefully, "There's not necessarily a rational explanation."

"He does seem particularly unhappy with professional nudity," commented Castiel. "A diaper is out of the question. Towel shorts would be most uncomfortable. I suspect that Dean would find a pair of white briefs unacceptable. I am at a loss as to what garment might satisfy his requirement to protect his modesty, yet also conform to the idiomatic depiction of cherubs.

Sam was tapping away on the laptop, trying not to let the smile show too broadly on his face. "I think I have a suggestion," he said. "Do you know 'Swan Lake'?"

"It is a ballet, with music composed by Pyotr Tchaikovsky," replied Castiel, "First performed in 1877, it has come to be regarded as the outstanding example of the genre of tragedy in dance, most usually rendered in the technically demanding style of choreography attributed to Balanchine..."

Sam brought up a picture on the laptop. "Are you at all familiar with the production by Matthew Bourne?"

* * *

><p>Sorry about the goat thing. My own husband does a goat impression that is terrifying, <em>terrifying,<em> in its authenticity. He did it this morning. Sometimes, it's the noise. Sometimes... oh, it's too awful even to think about.

Reviews will help me not to think about goat impressions, for which I would be extremely grateful...


	5. Chapter 5

So, have all our Merkin friends been thoroughly traumatised by S7.01? I haven't even seen S6 yet, that's how backward we are Down Here. Or maybe it's just me. I'm sure if I was adequately fangirlish, I would have Made Arrangements by now. I really don't like the sound of God!Cas at all. Or RoboSam. (Is it true that in one episode, when he takes his shirt off and turns around, you can see a switch with just two settings, 'Hunt' or 'Sex'?)

Anyway, my grovelingest apologies for dragging the chain on this one. Curse you, Real Life! To make matters worse, that little plot bunny that was so insistent has suddenly gone shy, and is hiding under the couch, and won't come out. I don't know what's startled him. It could be that horrible Real Life thing frightening him. Cas knows, it frightens me...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

"Stop laughing."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are. Stop it."

"I'm not laughing!"

"You totally are laughing. Knock it off."

"Dean, I'm not laughing!" Sam said in some exasperation. "Look, I'm just sitting here with a perfectly neutral expression, checking the map, and wondering vaguely what sort disgusting item you're going to have for lunch for the express purpose of grossing me out whilst eating it with your mouth open."

"You're laughing. On the inside," griped Dean. "I can hear it."

"What, so you're a mind-reader now?" asked Sam tartly. "I thought you had to nude up to do that."

"Aha! So you admit it!" scowled Dean, "I know you, little brother, and I can tell when you're laughing at me!"

"Dean, I am not laughing at you on the inside!" Sam reiterated. "Dude, if I'm going to laugh at you getting around naked being hugged by Temeriel, I'm going to do it out loud and out proud..."

"You smiled!" barked Dean accusingly. "Look, you're really smiling now! Argh! That, Sam, that was a chuckle! That was definitely a chuckle!"

"I would've called it a chortle, myself," Sam smiled sunnily, "But I can work with 'chuckle'."

"Well, stop it," fumed Dean.

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"So do I. Look, no laughing. Inside or out."

"Well, keep it that way."

"I am. I'm thinking about sick kittens, broken toys, and D- grades on important assignments, to make sure I don't laugh." Sam looked at his brother. "And now I'm thinking about what you'd look like on a series of Hallmark cards. Their first ever adults-only Valentine's Day line. The 'Living Sex God' series. It would sell out within hours..."

"Sam..."

"Something tasteful, of course, no full frontal. There would have to be a strategically placed bunch of flowers, or a heart-shaped box of chocolates..."

"Sam..."

"You could do a coffee table book."

"Bitch."

When they finally arrived in Colorado and found themselves an appropriately crappy motel room, Jimi pushed between the Winchesters and began to bark.

"Oh, no," groaned Dean, "Can we not even have a minute's peace to unpack our..."

"Hello Dean," the gravelly voice far too close to his left ear said.

"Hello Cas," sighed Dean. "You know, there are days when I wonder whether you were once a conjoined twin, and now you just can't let go of the whole personal space intrusion thing..."

"Hello!" a cheerful, booming greeting was followed by a small "awk!" noise, as Temeriel appeared, and grabbed Sam from behind in another cherub hug. "We're here! Dean! Hello!"

In wide-eyed panic, Dean darted behind the Castiel to avoid the hug. It didn't work; Temeriel manifested as a large-framed man, so he merely gathered Castiel and Dean into his arms. "I'm so looking forward to working with you!" the cherub went on happily, before letting go. His face became confused. "Castiel," he asked doubtfully, "Why is his face doing that?" He peered at Dean. "I let go before he did the gasping thing, and he's not turning blue at all..."

"I believe it is to do with the human concept of 'personal space'," suggested Castiel. "Dean may be discomfited by the proximity of your male manifestation, and this discomfiture may be magnified by your form's state of undress, given that he was raised and lives in a culture that has a strong nudity taboo, and often makes unfavourable judgements about any overt display of affection between men that may be construed in any way as having a sexual element..."

Temeriel looked good-naturedly bewildered, like a Beagle who's eaten another pair of socks, and is struggling to understand what he's done wrong.

Dean sighed. "Look, Tem," he began, "It's hard to explain, but some guys just don't do hug with other guys, okay? I'm one of them."

Temeriel's face creased. "But you have hugged Sam," he went on, "And you have hugged Bobby. And you hugged your father. And, once, when you were nine, Andy McAllister..."

"The point is," Dean cut him off, glaring at Sam, whose eyebrows had shot up, "Lots of guys only hug other guys occasionally, under very specific circumstances, and _not_ when there is nakedness involved. Especially when there is nakedness involved."

Temeriel looked bewildered. "But... Andy McAllister..."

"Look," Dean scowled at both the Cupid and his brother (whose eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline), "Naked turbo-charged hug is not an appropriate way to say 'hello', all right? It just isn't. So, don't do it, it's, it's..."

Temeriel had his little notebook out. "Would you say," he asked, consulting a previous page, "That it is a behaviour that would be 'deemed weird'?"

"Yes!" Dean sounded relieved, "Yes, that's exactly it! It would be deemed extremely weird. So, don't do it."

Temeriel jotted intently, as Castiel announced "You will have a chance to observe your charges this evening. They are in the habit of frequenting the same bar after work, and are coincidentally present on a reasonable number of occasions."

"They drink at the same bar?" said Dean, smiling, "Hey, that's half the job done for us right there, already!"

"So, are you and your intern going to, you know, get into uniform, and go scope them out?" asked Sam, making at least a token effort to stifle his grin.

"Nope," Dean said firmly, "We are going to scope this out like we would any other job. Then, if an opportunity arises, maybe we will go... professional."

"Speaking of being professional," said Temeriel with a smile, "I've been keeping these for you, but you should really keep them yourself." He held out the ridiculous-looking little bow and quiver that put Dean in mind of props from a school play.

"I'm not touching that," Dean grumbled, "I'm not getting naked in front of you guys."

"You will need to practise putting aside and calling forth your bow, as Cupids do," Castiel explained, "Should an opportunity arise unexpectedly concerning one of your charges. Also, since you seemed so distressed by the nudity that is habitual for cherubs, I have taken the liberty of altering the conditions of your Acting Cupid role, to include a garment that will cover your nether regions."

Dean glared suspiciously at the angel. "It damned well better not be a diaper," he rumbled dangerously, "I can lay my hands on enough holy oil to Molotov your feathery ass, and also Mount Temeriel here..."

"It is not," Castiel assured him. "With Sam's help, I have provided for something that is within the idiom of a cherub's manifestation, but should be acceptable to you."

Dean turned his glare on Sam. "It is not a diaper, or any form of continence aid," Castiel went on. "I considered a pair of shorts made from towelling, or a pair of white men's briefs, but with Sam's assistance, concluded that these would be unsatisfactory."

"Yeah," put in Sam, "I confirmed that under no circumstances would you want to be getting around in a towel, or a pair of tighty-whiteys."

"I have arranged a garment that will provide considerably more coverage than briefs," Castiel said.

"Think board shorts, bro," Sam added encouragingly.

"Okay, then," Dean said, mollified, "That sounds better. They're not white?"

"Absolutely not," confirmed Sam, "Didn't think you'd like white."

"Damned straight," muttered Dean. "All right, then," he squared his shoulders, and held his hand out for the bow and quiver. "Ahem. Cupid powers... activate!"

And they did.

"That's the laughing thing, isn't it?" observed Temeriel, watching Sam closely, "His face is going red, not blue, and, there, he's making the 'hahaha' noise..."

Dean was wearing shorts. They were the length of board shorts. They were not white. They were, in fact, covered in pale grey, soft, fluffy feathers.

"I would ask, 'What kind of demented freak asshole would think of feathery shorts?'," growled Dean, "Except I only have to look at my little brother to answer my own question..."

"It was a stroke of inspiration on Sam's part," Castiel insisted, "Without his suggestion, it would have been very difficult indeed to identify a garment that would fall within the parameters of manifestation of a Cupid."

Sam stopped laughing and stared at Dean's shorts. "They look really, you know, feathery," he said, fascinated, his expression like that of a cat that's just spotted an extremely interesting ball of expensive cashmere yarn. "Really downy. And soft. Is it okay if I stroke your..."

"No!" snapped Dean. The feathers on his pants bristled in irritation.

Sam's fingers twitched involuntarily. "Wow, mood sensitive pants!" he breathed. "Go on, just one little pat..."

"You try to pet my pants, you perv, and you will lose your hand at the elbow," Dean growled, his pantly plumage rustling angrily.

"Dean's pants may be reacting in a way analogous to that in which an angel's wings may reflect mood," postulated Castiel, "Seeing as he does not actually have any feathers, only being an Acting Cupid."

"I totally hate you both," Dean grated out through gritted teeth, as he slapped Sam's hand away. "Tem, how do I 'put aside' this frigging bow?"

"You kind of..." Temeriel called forth his own, and waved it in demonstration, "Um, try to imagine hanging it on a hook on a wall... No, that won't work, you're imagining hanging Sam on a hook on a wall... now you're imagining strangling him with the bowstring, Dean, that's not very nice, he's your brother!... Concentrate, Dean! Stop thinking such... oh, why would you put hair remover in his shampoo? Don't be so horrible!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean managed to squelch his revenge fantasies for long enough to practise de- and re-Cupidifying a few times. Sam managed to get in a couple of surreptitious pats of his pants, which only achieved two things: it made Sam want to pet his pants some more, and it irritated Dean even more. By the time they got to the bar in question, he was in a thoroughly grumpy mood.

"It's like they're alive, even," enthused Sam, "They're kind of, you know, warm, and they feel like real feathers, it's like, it's like, petting a baby swan, or something... seriously, you could do advertising for a fabric softener with those pants, put that bear you hate out of a job... you know they have Pets As Therapy, dogs that go into hospitals and nursing homes to help cheer people up? I bet you could do Pants As Therapy with those, it's the same calming feeling you get from cuddling a puppy..."

"I don't suppose there's a company charge card, to cover work-related expenses, such as copious amounts of alcohol to deal with the trauma of wearing feathery pants and having my brother become obsessed with my pants and keep trying to grope me?" he asked plaintively. Castiel's expression suggested that he should keep a list of expenses, and claim it back on tax next financial year. "Didn't think so. Damned Holy Tax Accountant..."

"Look! There she is!" trilled Temeriel eagerly, as he hovered behind them, invisible to all the other patrons. "Sylvia Aldersen!" He pointed out an unremarkable-looking woman in her mid to late twenties, who sat nursing a drink (Dean thought that alcoholic beverages had no business being that luridly coloured) and reading a magazine.

"What sort of person goes to a bar to read a magazine?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, it's not a magazine, it's a journal," Temeriel explained, "It's the _American Journal of Veterinary Research_. She's a veterinarian. It's an article about... treatment of Addison's disease in large dogs. She currently has a German Shepherd under her care with a low heart rate, but she suspects the dog is just fit, and the owner has been reading too many articles on the internet..."

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "What sort of person goes to a bar to read a professional journal?"

"Well, actually," muttered Sam, sheepishly, "There's something about the, I dunno, ambiance at a bar or café that can help you home in on what you're reading, just through having to block out what's going on around you. It can be a remarkably productive way to study... I'm just saying," he finished, blushing slightly.

"And there he is!" Temeriel pointed to a man making his way into the bar in the company of some friends. "That's Phillip McCaffrey. Mechanic. He works on cars, but has a special talent with small engines. It's been a long day." Temeriel cocked his head in a startlingly Cas-like gesture. "But a productive one. He found the problem with an old Suzuki GSX that was hunting at idle – it wasn't the air inlet at all, it was one wire going the wrong way through the loom, when it was restored – and diagnosed the problem with an early model Yamaha two-stroke, the dreaded Yamaha I.E.P.s, whatever that means..."

"Intermittent Electrical Problems," translated Dean, "Those things were notorious for problems with the first generation electronic ignitions. So, now they're here, what do we do?"

"Well," Temeriel began hesitantly, "Usually, we just have to hit them with our Cupid's arrows, with intent to bring them together..."

"Okay, then, so let's do it," Dean humphed, standing up. He stepped backwards into a pool of shadow, and called forth his bow. "It looks more like a toy than a bow," he eyed it critically, "And it's crowded in here. What happens if somebody else gets hit by mistake?"

"The arrow will only hit the person you intend it for," Temeriel assured him, "So long as you concentrate on the charges you wish to bring together."

"Right. This is going to be like shooting charges in a barrel," he smirked, taking an arrow from his quiver. "I don't know why you need me for this..." He nocked the arrow, drew, and released.

It flew upwards and disappeared into the ceiling.

"Sam!" he barked, "You're putting me off my aim, you weirdo!"

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, withdrawing his hand, but continuing to stare in fascination at Dean's pants. "They're just so silky soft..."

"Well, we'll get you a lovely feather boa of your own to play with later," Dean grumped. He nocked and drew another arrow and fired.

Archery was something he'd learned young – it was a necessary skill for a Hunter, so his aim was dead on. The small arrow streaked across the room, apparently moving right through a waitress who walked into its path, and hit Phillip McCaffrey between the shoulder blades, slightly to the right. If it had been a human weapon, it would have been a killing shot.

The arrow bounced off as if it hit a stone wall.

"Huh?" Dean frowned. "That can't be right, I hit him." He took another arrow, nocked, drew, fired...

And that one bounced off as well.

"I guess I have to hit her first," he shrugged, changing his aim to Sylvia Aldersen, who still sat reading her journal.

The arrow went right through her journal, and bounced off her sternum.

"You see, this is the problem," Temeriel tried to explain worryingly, "It's not always as simple as just shooting the arrows at your charges. You have to get them, to, well, 'take', if you like..."

Dean was staring thoughtfully at the bow in his hand. "I think I see what the problem is," he announced.

"You do?" asked Temeriel, sounding a little dubious.

Dean turned to the Cupid with an expression like a Mythbusters researcher tasked with finding something else to blow up, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Temeriel – we're going to need a bigger boat."

* * *

><p><strong>Dean (snarling): <strong>You miserable little tattle-tale asshole rodent! *aims hearty kick at plot bunny*

**Plot Bunny: (twitching nose adorably):** Eeeeeep! *scuttles under couch*

**Lampito:** Dean! Have you been threatening the plot bunny? Is that why he's clammed up?

**Dean:** What? Me? No! *hides knife behind back*

**Lampito:** Stop trying to intimidate the plot bunny, or else!

**Dean (drawling contemptuously):** Or else what? *smirks smugly *

**Lampito:** I shall summon... The Denizens' Dean Disciplining and Sam Spanking Service!

**Dean**** (looking absolutely scandalised):** You wouldn't!

**Lampito:** They're very fond of the plot bunnies that whisper to me. Or, I'll ask it to tell me about you and Andy McAllister. When you were nine.

**Dean****:** Eeeeeep! *scuttles under couch*


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"I'm not sure why we'd need a boat," Temeriel admitted to Castiel, as the angels watched Dean, who was currently rifling through the trunk of the Impala. "The romantic cruise is a time honoured ploy, but it usually doesn't work until we have them paired up..."

"I do not believe that Dean is referring literally to procuring the use of a watercraft of any description," Castiel told him, "I believe it may be a 'cultural reference'. It is most likely a quote from a film or a song, or some other shared experience, used to convey an idea, situation or an emotion that is deemed analogous with what was conveyed by that quote in the context of the original example."

Temeriel frowned, the Beagle chewing on the next pair of socks. "But if I haven't shared the experience, I won't understand the reference."

"This is, unfortunately, a drawback of the use of this idiom of language," Castiel agreed, "Even having been required to sit through various films at Dean's insistence, I must confess that I still do not fully comprehend why he cannot simply state exactly what he means."

"Aha!" exclaimed Dean, triumphantly pulling a bow case from the trunk as Temeriel quickly jotted some notes, "Yahtzee!"

"What is a 'yachtsie'?" asked Temeriel, "Is it a word for a small yacht? Is this a boat reference again?"

"What it means, Tem, is that I have found what I was looking for," grinned Dean, shucking the bow out of its cover. "Say hello to my little friend."

"Hello, Yachtsie," said Temeriel cheerfully, "You are an attractive bow." As an aside to Castiel, he added, "It's always been something of a puzzle to me, but I find humans' capacity to name and make friends with inanimate objects somehow endearing..."

Dean's eye-roll was almost audible.

"Uh, I think you'll find that's another one of those cultural reference things, Temeriel," sighed Sam. Temeriel looked surprised, then pulled out his notebook and scribbled furiously.

"This here is a recurved, composite, 70-pound bow, which will put a 900 grain shaft thorough just about anything you can hunt and eat." Dean ran an eye over the bow, and strung it. "I'm thinking it'll pack more punch than the little gold Christmas pageant props you guys operate with. Archery technology has moved on in the last few thousand eons, you know."

Dean re-Cupidified ("Sam, knock it off!" "Sorry, but right now, your legs are just irresistible.") and strode back into the bar with the others behind him.

"Now, let's go make some introductions," he grinned.

Back inside, he nocked an arrow, drew, and loosed.

Fired from a larger bow, the arrow moved at higher speed, making a definite 'shwish' noise as it travelled across the bar, through a waitress and another patron, to strike Phillip McCaffrey square in the sternum.

It bounced off, with an amusing little '_doink_' noise audible only to the Winchesters and the angels.

"What the...?" Dean frowned, and tried again, with the same result.

"Gah!" His pants rustled in an aggravated fashion as he nocked another arrow, and loosed in the direction of Sylvia Aldersen.

It went right through her gaudy drink, and hit her in the neck.

_doink_

"Well, that sucks," muttered Dean, calling forth his Cupid's bow and testing the draw, "It's got twice the punch of the standard issue, it should've done the job... Sam!"

"I'm trying to help!" Sam protested, stroking Dean's pants, "Your pants are really agitated! Look, they're calming down now." He stroked Dean's thigh tenderly. "See? The feathers are all nice and smooth now... so soft..."

Dean yelped, and slapped his hand away. "Stop soothing my pants!" he demanded. "If anything in my pantly region requires stroking, soothing, or otherwise attending, I'll... I'll..." he looked down. Strangely enough, his pants had calmed down under Sam's attention. "Just... just don't. It's weird. And it's creepy. And it's weird. If necessary, I am perfectly capable of dealing with anything getting over-excited in my pants."

A few more tries made it clear that the Winchesters' bow was not going to drive the arrows home.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Temeriel a little anxiously.

"We consider the intel we have, and modify our plan," Dean told him, "But we can't do that until tomorrow. Anyway," he nodded in the direction of the door, "There goes our chargette. Off to stick her hand up a dog's ass, or whatever it is that vets do for fun."

"Dean, vets don't stick their hands up dogs' asses for fun!" protested Sam, "That would be animal cruelty!"

Temeriel nodded. "Yesterday, she had to perform a manual disimpaction of the anal glands on a Pekinese called Brutus, and neither of them enjoyed it. Also, Tulip the Doberman required an examination following removal of rectal polyps, and while he was very well behaved, neither dog nor vet enjoyed that..."

Dean put his face in his hands. "Tem," he said, "It might be a good idea for you to start a list of things we can talk about sometime when we have the time, and I've had a lot more to drink. At the top of that list, put 'Personal Space'. Next, put 'Too Much Information'. I'll let you know if anything else crops up."

"Should I put down 'Cultural References'?" asked Temeriel as he jotted dutifully.

"Yeah. Also 'Inappropriate Hugging'."

"If you wish to reconsider your strategy tomorrow, I will leave," Castiel told them, "I have other matters to attend to. I will find you again tomorrow, to see what progress you have made. Temeriel must also return to Heaven for now, but will rejoin you as soon as he can." As Castiel spoke, the cherub's face fell.

"Does he have to go?" asked Sam. "He can probably learn a lot just by hanging around with us, if he's supposed to be learning about how humans approach the whole boy-girl thing..."

"It's my last report," Temeriel said in a small voice. "It came back from Danael, in Reception. It's covered in corrections." He seemed on the verge of tears. "It's got UNSATISFACTORY on it. She had a stamp made. Some of the cherubs say..." he gulped, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "Some of the cherubs say, she fills her pen and inks her stamp pad with... with... demon blood..."

"Demon blood?" chorused the Winchesters.

Temeriel nodded warily. "She bites their heads off, and drains their blood out. Before she eats them for breakfast. Raw."

"Danael can be a most exacting taskmaster," explained Castiel, "She performs a vital, difficult, and indispensable function in Heaven. She demands high standards from everyone, especially herself. Cherubs are very junior, low-ranking angels. As a result, some of the cherubs find her... intimidating. There are a certain number of uncharitable rumours circulating about her. That is one of them. As is the one," he frowned at Temeriel, "About her actually being a Gorgon on attachment from the Greek Pantheon." Temeriel blushed. "The picture that was circulated of her with her 'snakes' in curlers showed a distinct lack of humility and obedience on the part of whoever engineered it," Castiel continued. "In addition, the segment from a human movie depicting Adolf Hitler upbraiding his senior officers during the final days before the fall of Berlin in 1945, in which someone imitating Danael's voice has overdubbed Hitler's deranged monologue with an impression of Danael bemoaning the incorrect use of apostrophes and the subjunctive mood is most disrespectful, unkind, and not the least bit funny."

"Uriel thought it was funny," Temeriel muttered mutinously.

"Uriel thought many things were funny," Castiel bent a stern, I-Am-Sheriff-Of-Heaven Eye-Sex-Of-Doom stare on the junior angel. "Uriel was the funniest angel in my Garrison. Uriel thought that the Expulsion from Paradise was funny. He took a deck chair, and a bag of manna, to "make an afternoon of it". Uriel thought that the Great Flood was funny. He sat on a cloud, and threw rocks at the last humans treading water. Uriel thought that the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah was funny. He took marshmallows, in direct violation of the temporal continuum. Uriel thought the Plagues of Egypt were funny. Uriel thought that the affliction of the Philistines with haemorrhoids was funny..."

"That does sound kinda funny," chuckled Dean. Sam scowled and elbowed him. "But of course, Uriel was a dick, so it wasn't really funny at all," he added.

"I've had one of my p-mails corrected by Danael," sympathised Sam. "She gave me a B+."

"Wow," breathed Temeriel, "She must've been really impressed..."

"Virtue's pet," snarked Dean. Sam shot him a full metal jacketed Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted).

"I shall attend to my Heavenly duties, as Temeriel will attend to his," Castiel reiterated. "We shall meet you again tomorrow." He disappeared in a swirl of trench coat, accompanied by Temeriel, who gave them a cheery wave.

Dean shook his head. "And I thought Cas was a walking definition of clueless," he muttered.

"He seems like he means well," Sam commented, "And he really wants to learn. Maybe I should offer to give him a hand with that report... So, what now?"

"We go eat, then amuse ourselves until tomorrow, when I will upgrade my arsenal."

After they'd eaten, Dean spent a cryptic, quiet twenty minutes on the laptop, then announced that he was going out. "I feel lucky tonight," he grinned, "I might go and find me a poker game, or play me some pool."

"Just don't get her pregnant," humphed Sam as his smirking big brother picked up his keys, and left.

He checked the laptop immediately, but was relieved to see that Dean had done nothing more than check a couple of phone directories, and there had been no porn involvement. As far as he was concerned, that constituted his getting lucky for the night.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I think that one of these days, we should get you genetically tested," said Sam, watching Dean make his way enthusiastically, messily and noisily through a stack of pancakes the next morning, "To check that we're actually related. In fact, I think we should test you to see whether you are in fact fully human, because when you eat, you look like a pig, and you sound like a pig, and..."

Dean smiled angelically, and broke wind robustly.

"The prosecution rests, Your Honour," griped Sam, turning back to his omlette.

"I plead guilty as charged. Oink oink," Dean said happily, "And the court sentences me to... cannibalism! Oh no!" He picked up a rasher of bacon and shoved it into his mouth. "Nope, still not feeling remorseful, have to do it again," he shoved in another rasher.

"Hello Dean!"

There was no warning when Temeriel manifested, no tell-tale flap of any garments; one moment, Dean was enjoying his breakfast, the next, the very large cherub was squashed into the booth with him, and pulling him into a bear hug. A chunk of bacon flew from his mouth as the cherub performed an incidental Heimlich manoeuvre on him.

"Hi, Temeriel," grinned Sam, as the Cupid beamed back at him, and Dean gasped for air, "How did you go with your report?"

The cherub's face fell. "Danael wasn't pleased with it," he related, "She said it needs more work. And she said... she said..." his earnest face pinked slightly, "She said she finds it offensive when my participles dangle so obviously." He looked down at his human body uncertainly.

Sam stifled a grin. "Look, if we get some time later, maybe I can help you with that," he offered. Temeriel turned a grateful smile on him.

"That would be so kind of you!" he said happily. "After we've completed the mission, of course," he qualified, "So, what are we doing today, Dean?"

"Today, Tem, we are going shopping," answered Dean, wiping syrup from his hands. "Because I have decided that for this job, we need something that hits heavier than your average bow."

Temeriel looked confused. "But... it has to be a bow. To fire the Cupid's arrow. What else can we use?"

Dean grinned broadly. "The phased plasma rifle in the 40-watt range," he intoned solemnly.

Temeriel looked utterly baffled. "I don't understand," he stuttered, "Humanity will not develop such weapons for at least another several decades... and why are you using a bad germanic accent?"

"It's another cultural reference, Temeriel," Sam explained. The angel looked bewildered, but made a note in his book. "Whenever he says something bizarre, it's probably a cultural reference. Or he's drunk. Or both."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I really don't like this," said Temeriel in a small voice that evening, as he sat watching Dean carve carefully at some of the arrows from his Cupid's quiver, "I really don't like this at all. Taking things from stores is not right. It's theft. That's a Capital Vice. Stealing."

"It's not stealing if we're going to take it back," Dean assured the cherub, as Sam rolled his eyes. "It's borrowing."

"Although to be fair, Temeriel, 'borrowing' usually takes place between people who know each other reasonably well, and is assumed to include asking the rightful owner nicely first," Sam opined. "Generally, acquisition by stealth is regarded as theft. And walking into a sporting goods store wearing your Cupid camouflage +5 Feathery Pants Of Invisibility in order to take things without being noticed, while your little brother is deployed to ask about quarrel weight ratings, that would count as stealing."

"And trying to edge up to your big brother while he's selecting a crossbow, and groping at his legs with your +47 Sasquatch Paws Of Creepy Perviness, that's technically theft of a man's dignity, and so also counts as stealing," countered Dean.

"It's... creepy." Temeriel stared unhappily at the offending ordnance. "It's malevolent. It's... nasty. It's..."

"A high-powered Armex Jaguar cross-bow, with rifle stock, open sight, compression moulded fibreglass limbs, and a few little Winchester modifications, which should bring the draw up to about, oh, say, three hundred pounds." Dean sounded smug as he trimmed the fletchings from the arrows. "Ideally, we'd have heavier shafts, but these will be fine at such short range."

"Those arrows weren't ever designed to be fired by... that," Temeriel gestured worriedly, "I just wonder if we should think about this a bit more, maybe try it out, before trying to do it with our charges..."

"Do or do not, there is no try," intoned Dean sagely.

Temeriel cocked his head. "Is your throat getting sore?" he asked Dean, at the sound of the older Winchester's voice, "Are you becoming ill?"

"Another cultural reference, Temeriel," sighed Sam, "Just let it go. Is Castiel going to join us?"

"He said he'd be back when he could, to see how we are getting on," Temeriel answered. "I believe that Danael may have sent one of his files back," the cherub added in a portentious whisper.

They headed back to the bar after business hours, and found a small table in an inconspicuous corner. Dean seated Temeriel between himself and Sam, in a bid to prevent his brother from petting his pants.

"Stop it!" he hissed at Sam, "You're the only one of us that people can see! If people see you sitting here, by yourself, doing _that_, it's going to look like you're doing something that will result in the staff calling the cops. Or that guy over there in the purple jeans making a pass at you. Either way, I will not lift a finger to save you."

"And you call me a buzzkill," remarked Sam a touch acidly. "I'm going to get a drink. And since I'm sitting here by myself, I'm not getting one for you."

"Bitch." Dean pulled a face at Sam, who ignored him epically, and headed for the bar. "So, now all we have to do is wait for our charges to finish with their two strokes and their dogs' asses."

Not long after that, Sylvia arrived with a friend, and Phillip walked in with a couple of workmates soon after.

"Right, then," smiled Dean, "Time to fire up Ol' Painless. I'm gonna have me some fun..."

Temeriel made a quick note in his book while Dean cocked and loaded the modified nitro-sucking, turbo-charging, double-jointed crossbow. The cherub and Sam both eyed Dean and the weapon warily.

"Temeriel has a point, you know," Sam said a bit hesitantly, "That thing really does look kind of nasty..."

"I did say I was a bit concerned about using a weapon that powerful to fire one of these arrows," reiterated the Cupid.

Dean grinned as he trained the crossbow on Sylvia...

"Sometimes, Temeriel, you just gotta nuke the entire site from orbit; it's the only way to be sure."

... And fired...

Three things happened.

Firstly, the crossbow, which Dean had modified with his usual approach to increasing the power output of anything from an improvised flame thrower to Bobby's electric carving knife (an incident which was sometimes referred to at Chez Singer in hushed tones as 'The Thanksgiving Turkey Massacre Of 2009'), snapped its string after being tensioned too highly and firing a quarrel that was too small, too light, and completely blasé about obeying the laws of Earthly physics.

Secondly, the quarrel bounced off Sylvia and hit the wall behind her. The Winchesters and Temeriel watched in horror as it ricocheted off the wall, shot across the room, then ricocheted off the opposite wall, the floor, a table, a snoozing guide dog and an unwary moth.

"Holy shit!" yelped Sam, as the three of them dived under the table, "I think the damned thing is actually picking up speed..."

Thirdly, there was a distinctive and familiar _flap-flap_ sound.

Which was followed by a particularly worrying and solid _thunk_ noise.

"Cas!" Dean scrambled out from under the table with the others in time to see Castiel looking at the small golden shaft protruding from his arm. As they all watched, it faded away.

Dean peered carefully at Castiel. "Er, Cas?" he asked. "Are you, uh, feeling all right?"

Castiel watched the quarrel fade, and looked up unconcernedly.

"Hello, Dean," he said. Then he smiled.

* * *

><p>Oh dear. How bad do you think it might get? With a bit of luck, all that will happen is that Cas will develop the urge to smile at Dean. Unless anybody makes suggestions that inspire the plot bunny... (Remember, any naughty naughty Destiel fans, I don't do slash.)<p>

Reviews are the Gold Stars From Danael In Heavenly Reception on the Essays Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for the kind and encouraging reviews, and the enthusiastic if somewhat worrying suggestions. Some of them might even end up in here...

As to aeicha's question, I was once told in English at school to 'write about what you know', so I tend to write about stuff I don't have to do much research on. My brain is a trivia trap, full of all sorts of useless stuff, gradually taking over and leaving less and less room for useful information. I was able to cheat with the archery stuff by asking my husband, who's qualified as an instructor. (Of course, he wasn't much help initially - I ask him, 'If you could ask Father Christmas for the biggest, baddest, whizz-bangest crossbow you could get, what would you ask for?' and his reply was 'Ooooh, ooooh, A Burleigh & Stronginthearm double action triple-cantilever crossbow with a polished walnut stock and engraved silver facings!')

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"Er, is that bad?" asked Sam hesitantly.

"I don't know!" Temeriel practically wailed. "We never fire them at other _angels_! And we never fire them at _anybody_, at that sort of speed..."

"Um, Cas?" Dean tried again, hesitantly, trying to sound calm but given away by his pants as they rustled with concern. "Are you... okay?"

Castiel glanced back down at his arm. "I appear to have been struck by a Cupid's arrow," he remarked. "That is most irregular. How did it happen?"

"Er, well, I, er, I needed something a bit, uh, more powerful than the standard issue company bow," Dean told him, waving his modified crossbow by way of explanation, "But it still didn't work." He frowned at the weapon. "I thought that Cupid's arrows were only supposed to hit who they're intended for."

"Usually, yes," Temeriel said, "But that one was acting... strangely. You saw it, it actually picked up speed as it went..."

"Maybe it's a relativity thing," postulated Sam. "Because it was travelling so much more quickly than it was ever supposed to, and let's face it, these things aren't bound by the normal laws of physics that govern ballistic dynamics. Laws of Newtonian physics start to break down when you deal with extremes of time and matter, you know, the very big, the very small, the very fast. Maybe, at that sort of speed, Heavenly mechanics starts to break down, and you get these, uh, relativistic effects."

Sam's Einsteinian interpretation of the errant arrow just made Dean's pants rustle even more.

"There is no need to be concerned," Castiel intoned in his usual gravelly voice, "It does not seem to have had any ill effects." He smiled again. "Calm your pants, Dean," he added, "I am unharmed." He put out a hand, and began to stroke Dean's thigh tenderly.

Dean's eyes bugged. Sam's eye's narrowed, like a cat seeing the newly arrived kitten get at the enticing ball of expensive cashmere yarn.

"Uh, Cas," Dean began carefully, "Uh... personal space?"

"One moment." Castiel continued to soothe Dean's ruffled feathers. "There," he announced with satisfaction, "Much better. I can sympathise," he went on, putting an understanding hand on Dean's shoulder, "Having one's feathers respond to internal agitation can be... uncomfortable."

"Yeah, uncomfortable, definitely uncomfortable," nodded Dean, as Castiel smiled fondly at him again.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Temeriel, sounding a little bit lost.

"We need more information on who these people are, what they're like," Dean decided, "So we can work out a way to get them together. You did say it was all about getting them to see what a great couple they'd make, right?"

"That's right," Temeriel nodded, "If we can get them to interact, the arrows should be able to find their marks more easily. Without having to use _that_." He glared at the crossbow. "It's a horrible thing. I think you should take it back, first thing tomorrow."

Dean looked fondly at the crossbow. "It's a hell of a weapon," he sighed, "It could come in really useful. You could put a silver tip through a shapeshifter at a hundred yards with this thing..."

"Dean, you said you borrowed it!" Temeriel practically pouted.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll take it back," Dean sighed. He stepped back into the shadows, and de-Cupidifed. "Tomorrow. Right now, I need a drink, then I need to go and eat something with lots of refined carbohydrate and saturated fat, then I'm going out."

"Shall I accompany you, Dean?" asked Castiel, with another one of those disturbing fond smiles.

"Um, no, no, that won't be necessary," Dean told him quickly, "I'll be going out and doing those things you don't understand, like drinking, and, and, gambling, and more drinking, yes, definitely more drinking, and, and..."

"He will be visiting a Den Of Iniquity," said Sam, "And afterwards, there may be fornication involved."

"Absolutely!" confirmed Dean, "I'm an unreformed, unrepentant, indulger in iniquity! Fornicate 'til you herniate, that's my motto. I'm a hopeless case of iniquitous... iniquitousness. A lost cause."

"I would never regard you as a lost cause, Dean," Castiel smiled gently, "You may have flaws, as do all humans, and indeed many angels, but at base, you are a good person, with a sense of duty and responsibility and a desire to do what is right, and what is best for everyone, except yourself." He gave Dean a patented Castiel's Eye-Sex Stare. "It is what I admire most about you."

"Oh. Er. Um, right. Thank you, Cas, that's very... understanding of you," stuttered Dean, as Sam muttered "Awkard," behind him. "So, we'll, uh, expect Tem here to show up tomorrow. To help with gathering intel."

"Very well." Both angels disappeared, and Dean let out a relieved sigh.

"Is it just me," he said, "Or has that arrow made Cas a bit... weird? Weirder than usual, I mean."

"No idea," shrugged Sam, "I have no idea how these things are supposed to work in the first place."

"He petted my pants, Sam!" exclaimed Dean, "Cas petted my pants!"

"I know," Sam replied, a little reproachfully, "And you let him. I didn't see you slapping his hands away..."

"I was frozen in disbelief!" protested Dean.

"Your feathers like him," Sam went on, "They calmed down."

"Yeah, well the rest of me did the opposite," growled Dean, "Touchy-feely from my giant emo brother is bad enough, from an Angel of the Lord, it's just, just, just..."

"Soothing?" suggested Sam snarkily.

Dean sighed. "Let's get something to eat," he griped, "So I can go hang out in my Den Of Iniquity."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"So, this is called the 'mouse'," Sam explained to Temeriel, who sat watching closely as he tapped at the laptop, "And it moves the cursor, on the screen, see? These are the buttons, just called 'left click' and 'right click'. Left is the one you use to open things..."

"It doesn't look very mouse-like," commented Temeriel, "Why isn't it called the 'cursor square'?

"It's an onboard version of a piece of equipment that looked very mouse-like," Sam explained. "Look, I'll show you... okay, we call this program a 'browser', now, we can use it to search for stuff... I'll type in 'computer mouse'..."

"Are you talking to yourse- oh, morning Tem," Dean emerged from the bathroom, "I didn't hear you come in."

"He showed while you were in the shower," Sam told his brother, "And didn't want to disturb you."

Temeriel nodded. "Castiel instructed me that ablutions were on the list of things that are considered private, and should not be disturbed," he said seriously, "And I wanted to avoid giving offence."

"That's very good," said Dean, "He's right, a man's bathroom time is private. Unless there's a hot woman involved, maybe a spa bath, possibly a round or two of Happy Pink Submarine..."

"But now you're out!" With a barely audible flap of what were presumably his wings, Temeriel appeared directly in front of him, smiling sunnily, and trapped him in a bear hug. "Good morning, Dean!" he breezed happily. "I hope you slept well. Did you enjoy your visit to the Den Of Iniquity? I'll let go now so you can breathe."

"Thanks for that, Tem," wheezed Dean. "If you're feeling instructional Sam, you might spend a bit less time teaching him about the internet, and a bit more teaching him about personal space."

"I've been hugged this morning, bro," Sam told Dean with a small smirk, "So why should I suffer alone? Maybe he can pet your pants for you while he's that close..."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So, what have you got, evil computer genius?"

"Can't find 'em on Facebook," remarked Sam, "Either they've got their privacy settings cranked up past 'Extreme Paranoia', or they don't use it. Websites for their workplaces aren't that helpful."

"But we did find some pictures of 'mice'," Temeriel added helpfully. "They do look quite mouse-like. I can see how they were named. Although I would never condone using an actual mouse. I'm pretty sure its ears wouldn't go 'click', anyway."

"Er, right." Dean eyed the cherub's earnest expression. "Well, looks like we have to do this the old-fashioned way, and go talk to these people."

Temeriel looked confused. "Human interactions are complex, and I have great difficulty in understanding them," he admitted, "But from what I know, it is often poorly received if a complete stranger walks up to a person and tries to ask personal questions. Sometimes it results in slapping." He looked anxious. "I don't want either of you to get slapped."

"The idea is to be a bit more subtle than that," Dean told him, "You need a cover, a pretext, to talk to the person. For instance, I'll go talk to Phil the mechanic – I can ask about something car-related, talk to him in his own language, while Sam, here, can go see Sylvia the vet. She'll take one look at those puppy dog eyes, and that shaggy hair, and she'll want to feed him liver treats, and stick her fingers up his ass..."

"Dean, I can't just walk into a vet surgery and try to strike up a conversation with the vet!" Sam asserted.

"You won't," Dean said smugly, "You'll make an appointment for her to see Jimi, because he's been a bit off-colour. You think he might be suffering from carsickness, but you'd like to get it checked out." At the sound of his name, Jimi got up from his blanket, picked up Oinker Stoinker, and butted against Temeriel's leg, soliciting a tug-of-war. The cherub obliged.

"He doesn't look like a dog who feels very sick," Sam remarked, as dog and Cupid rassled over the bedraggled toy.

"Well, we just gotta get him to pretend he doesn't feel well," said Dean.

"How the hell to we tell a dog to pretend he doesn't feel well?" asked Sam, exasperated. "We don't speak Dog!"

"We don't, no," agreed Dean, "But we know somebody who does."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"So, this is a program called Skype," Sam explained to Temeriel, "And it's a way of talking to someone over the internet in real time. I've already called and explained a lot of what we're doing, so we're expected... aaaaand..."

A scarred face popped into view on the screen.

"Gday Sam," said the woman, as a dog's head bobbed into view, "What can I do for you?"

"Hiya Ronnie," replied Sam, turning to the cherub who was sitting next to him. "I'd like to introduce you to Temeriel. He's a Cupid, and we're helping him with a mission..."

"Hello Ronnie Shepherd!" cried Temeriel with a big smile. He disappeared from Sam's side, and suddenly appeared on the laptop's screen, where Ronnie let out a startled shriek, then a bug-eyed 'awk!' as the cherub grabbed her in a hug. "It is so wonderful to meet you!"

"It's okay, Ronnie," said a smirking Dean from behind Sam, "It's just how Cupids say hello. It's their way of shaking hands."

"Eeeeep!" went Ronnie, as her dog sniffed curiously at the sudden appearance.

"And you must be Joni!" Temeriel declared happily. "You look so much like your brother!"

The dog whuffed happily at him, offering a paw and soliciting pats. He ruffled her ears before disappearing again, and rematerialising next to Sam.

"Does he do that to everybody?" Ronnie wanted to know.

"Pretty much," confirmed Sam, as he filled her in on the job they were doing, finishing with, "So, we need you to ask Jimi if he can pretend to feel sick."

"Yeah, sure, I can do that," Ronnie answered pleasantly, "But, I have a fee for my translating services."

Dean looked suspicious. "What do you mean, a fee?" he demanded. "We aint made of money, and you know it..."

"I don't want money," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively. "I want to see Dean in his corporate uniform."

Sam turned expectantly to Dean. "Go on, bro," he prompted, "Go Cupid on her ass."

"What?" spluttered Dean. "Forget it! Just forget it! I am NOT getting my Cupid on, just for the amusement of the world's crankiest werewolf!"

"Please?" asked Ronnie wistfully, with her own version of wolf-cub eyes. "Pleeeeeease?"

"Bite me," snarked Dean.

"I'm pair-bonded, you dirty devil," she grinned, "Go on, I wanna see some cherub action!"

"Absolutely not!" declared Dean.

"No Cupidee, no doggy talkee," she wheedled.

"Come on, bro," coaxed Sam, "It's not like you're naked, or anything..."

Dean swore he saw Sam's hand twitch in anticipation.

"I hate you so much," he snarled, possibly at Ronnie, possibly at Sam, possibly at both of them, "I totally hate you so much. I have silver ammo that would kill you both..."

"Che-rub! Che-rub! Che-rub! Che-rub!" chanted Ronnie enthusiastically.

With a look that was positively lupicidal, Dean called forth his Cupidity, concentrated on being visible, and stepped into the line of vision, his plumage shimmering with resentment.

"Hmmmmm." Ronnie studied his outfit critically. "That's an interpretation of Cupidic manifestation I wouldn't have expected. Have you ever seen Matthew Bourne's 'Swan Lake'? The corps is all male. You look like one of them. The male swans are extremely evocative, very intimidating."

"Intimidating?" echoed Dean doubtfully.

"Oh, yes, they behave like actual swans. Swans can be damned nasty buggers, savage, very imposing. A lot of people found their overt masculinity confronting."

"Overt masculinity?" Dean looked astonished.

"I gotta concede, you're working it." Ronnie shrugged. "Where's Jimi, then? Jimi! Jimi!" The Winchesters' dog popped his head into view, as Ronnie's features changed subtly to let her communicate with him. At one point, he whined pitifully, but whuffed resolutely.

"Okay, he understands what you're trying to do," she told Sam, her features completely human again, "But he's not happy about the thermometer, he never likes that bit much. He'll do it, though, because he's a Hunters' dog, and he'll do what gets the job done. Some liver treats might go towards making him feel happier about it."

"Yeah, Doc Wooley always gives him liver treats afterwards," Sam told her, "Thanks, Ronnie, say hi to Andrew for us."

"Will do. Nice to, er, meet you, Temeriel." The cherub waved goodbye enthusiastically as Joni woofed a farewell, and the connection cut.

"So, you make an appointment for Doc Sylvia to see Jimi, and Tem and I will go talk to Phil the mechanic," instructed Dean. "Jimi charms her with his good looks, engaging personality and noble masculinity, while you take note of anything that might STOP THAT!"

"I'm just trying to calm them down," reasoned Sam, getting in a surreptitious stroke, then looking longingly at the soft grey feathers as Dean slapped his hand away.

"Keep your giant girly emo hands off my manly and imposing masculine feathery pants!" demanded Dean. "Don't make me intimidate you!"

"Spoilsport," grumped Sam. "So, Temeriel, that's how Skype works."

The cherub sighed happily. "She was one of mine, you know," he confided, "And I'm so glad, she seems so much happier now..."

Sam's jaw dropped. "She was... Ronnie was one of your... charges?"

Temeriel nodded cheerfully. "Oh, what a job that was!" he laughed, "She was so stubborn, even her dog could see it before she did! Poor Andrew, there were times I just wanted to give the guy a hug, and tell him that it would all work out..."

"I don't believe it," commented Dean, de-Cupidifying, "I do not believe it."

"I'm always so happy to see charges getting on with their lives together," Temeriel oozed happiness. "He's not there right now because he's shopping for a ring!" he added gleefully.

"Huh?" chorused the Winchesters.

"Oh, they are going to be so _happy_ together!" Temeriel clapped his hands gleefully. "And their _kids_, oh, my, you wait until she sends Connor to you, Dean," the cherub laughed, "You'll call him Darth Maul, and he'll always answer 'Yes, my Master', the joke will never get old for you two, although it will drive Sam crazy..." he suddenly clapped his hands over his mouth. "But I probably shouldn't tell you about that yet," he added seriously, "So you should just forget anything I've just told you."

The Winchesters stared at him, dumbstruck.

"Er, yeah, okay," stuttered Sam in disbelief. "We'll just forget that they're going to... and then they're going to..."

"I get an... apprentice?" Dean asked in bemusement.

Temeriel conspciuously mimed locking his lips with a key, then stared at the ceiling and hummed nonchalantly.

"Okaaaaaay," said Sam, finally, "Why don't we just, er, get on with the job at hand? I'll make that call, get Jimi an appointment."

"Yeah. While you do that, me and Tem can go talk shop with Phil," Dean agreed. "Only you stay out of sight, and observe, okay?"

Temeriel nodded eagerly. "I'll watch, and take notes," he confirmed.

"Great. But right now, I feel the need for coffee. I may even get you your girly mochafrappacrappaskinnylatte oestrogen shake, if I'm feeling generous."

"Gee thanks," mumbled Sam, "You make me feel special."

As he smirked at his brother and turned to leave, Dean paused, and asked Temeriel,

"So, the Sith joke, it'll really annoy Sam, huh?"

Temeriel smiled, and examined the ceiling closely.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

When he got back from the jewellery store, Andrew had intended to ask Ronnie straight away, before he lost his nerve, but he found her rolling around on the floor, apparently having difficulty breathing.

When he was able to ascertain that she was just writhing with laughter and not pain, he looked at the computer to see what had caused such hilarity.

The sight of Dean Winchester in what appeared to be feathery board shorts reduced him to helpless fits of laughter too, so he had to wait until later to pop the question.

* * *

><p>Reviews make Dean's pants rustle enticingly.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Real Life, meetings and work load, oh my,  
>Real Life, meetings and work load, oh my...<p>

Management apologises grovellingly for the delay: the plot bunny has suddenly turned shy. I shall try to coax it into being more forthcoming. In addition, I may, sadly, have to gnaw through my own radial artery later today in order to escape from a meeting that go for at least an hour longer than it needs to, on account of the participation of highly ranked, clueless idiots. I leave my stash of TimTams to you. Divide them amongst yourselves.

Frankly, I think Ronnie should get some sort of award for telling Dean that she found him intimidating in his overtly masculine feathery pants. She only got a screen capture so she could show Andrew. And maybe send it to Bobby. But she didn't release it into the wild, because she's technically a fugly, but she's not evil. And Bobby certainly wouldn't, although he might threaten to. So don't waste your time searching the interwebs for Dean in his feathery pants. It's not out there.

Of course, if one of our Denizens does happen to draw a picture of Dean in his feathery pants, I will have to write the scenelet in which he sits for the drawing. More than one drawing, I'll have to write more than one scenelet, I guess...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

In the short time she had been practising veterinary medicine, Dr Sylvia Aldersen had made some observations that were never taught to her at college. Things like 'The ancient Egyptians worshipped cats as gods; cats have never forgotten this. The Egyptians were right about cats having at least one foot in the Otherworld from birth, but that paw is in Hell'. And 'Horses are uncomfortable in the middle, dangerous at the ends, and their propensity for cunning is often in inverse proportion to their size'. And 'The smaller the budgerigar, the more likely it is to know that it is distantly related to carnivorous dinosaurs – and you're a mammal'. And 'Iguanas bred in captivity and hand-raised by humans can get very confused about exactly what species female of they wish to mate with'. (Actually, she was rather fond of Herbert the Green Ig – the first time she'd met him he'd been a juvenile who had crawled into her shirt and gone to sleep. Of course, his attempts to do this now as a five-foot long adult had to be gently rebuffed; she swore he gave her a hurt look every time. His owner said that Herbert never did mating displays for anybody else, including a couple of very attractive female iguanas he'd been introduced to.)

But it was people and their dogs that really fascinated her. She'd decided that most people either ended up with the most incongruous canine companion possible (such as the six-foot-six fireman who was an amateur boxer, and doted on his French Bulldog Maisie – the man had cried like a distressed child when the little dog was diagnosed with a benign tumour requiring minor surgery) or a dog that was so much like them it was almost creepy.

Her patients included Sasha the Afghan, who, like his owner, had clearly gone back to the line for ditziness for a second time when the brains were handed out. Then there was Anastasia the Pekinese, whose disdain for humans was matched only by that of her doting owner, a well-dressed matron who managed to squash more vowels into her speech than a homeless drunk. Griff the Yorkshire Terrier was a grumpy old man (just like his owner), Ted the Boxer was inappropriately touchy-feely if not watched sternly (just like his owner), and Rosie the Staffordshire Terrier constantly found ways to sabotage attempts to control her weight (just like her owner).

Her last patient for the day and his owner definitely fell into the second group. When she called them in, she had a sudden irrational impression that she'd sampled one of Alice's Wonderland potions, and shrunk.

In her professional opinion, oversized breeding pre-disposed dogs to various skeletal and heart problems. In her personal opinion, the sort of people – usually men, she added mentally – who wanted a large, fearsome-looking Rottweiler were too often total dicks who felt they had to compensate for something.

The guy on the other end of this Rottweiler's leash didn't have that vibe though. Possibly because the Rottie was giving her an adorably happy doggy grin. Or possibly because he was big enough to make the Rottie look normal-sized. Or possibly because he gave her a dimpled smile that put her in mind of Geoffrey the Great Dane-Bichon Frise cross. (Geoffrey's actual conception was still something of a mystery, since Alphonse the Bichon-Frise didn't even come up to the chest of his next door neighbour and best friend, Lucy the Great Dane, there was a fence between them, and they were not ever allowed to run free unsupervised. There had to be aliens involved. Or at least an orange box.) Geoffrey had his mother's height, and his father's coat. Just like Geoffrey, Tall Guy managed to give the impression that he was peeking up adorably through all that hair.

Tall Guy – Sam, his name was – was worried that Jimi the Rottweiler might be unwell. They'd had a trip from South Dakota, and the dog was a bit off-colour.

Jimi was certainly the best-behaved Rottie she'd ever met. He whuffed to her, and offered a paw and a pair of Sad Dog Eyes that could've competed internationally. At a nod from his owner, he jumped onto the table, and stood resolutely for his examination, with barely a whine as the thermometer was deployed.

The two of them were just nice guys – Jimi was a real gentle giant, and his owner was easy to talk to. When he saw her degree on the wall, he said he'd done pre-law at Stanford, where she'd done pre-med (and later decided that animals were much nicer animals than humans, and applied to vet medicine in Colorado). They discovered they'd even had an English Lit. professor in common; she was glad to find out that she wasn't the only one who'd quickly worked out that parroting the man's own interpretations back to him was a fast-track to an A-grade (at the time, she'd felt guiltily mercenary about it).

Sylvia diagnosed carsickness in the dog (and possibly a little bit of neurosis in the owner, but she didn't say that), prescribed some electrolyte salts for his water and some medication, but also told him that anecdotal evidence suggested that a ginger cookie could work wonders. Probably a sweet treat and some pats and affection took the dog's mind off feeling unwell. Certainly, Jimi brightened up no end after his exam, when she gave him a liver treat. In fact, both of them offered her lovely smiles as they walked out with her afterwards.

It was something of a mystery to her as to why such a sweet-tempered dog as Jimi suddenly stiffened, and growled menacingly at her battered old red scooter – he shouldered her aside as if it was some creature ready to attack her. Sam told her that Jimi had been bowled over by a scooter when he was a puppy, and sometimes felt the need to 'protect' people from them. He checked it over for her, just in case there was a snake or something. (She had once found an injured Coachwhip curled around the clutch pedal; she'd gently disentangled the snake, cleaned its wounds, and kept it under observation for a week before releasing it. Herbert had come in for an appointment, caught a whiff of another reptile on her coat, and given her the most hurt, reproachful and betrayed expression she'd ever seen on any animal's face.) But there was nothing.

She saw them disappear in the mirror and gave them a little wave, deciding that really, she wouldn't have minded adopting at least one of them, but they were probably too big to fit on her Vespa.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

When Sam and Jimi got back to the cruddy motel room, Dean was trying to watch TV, while Temeriel consulted his notebook.

"So, how did the medical violation go, guys?" asked Dean through a mouthful of Doritos, grinning as Temeriel greeted Sam's return with the mandatory bear hug, then turned to embrace Jimi (who was right on board with the whole hugs thing, and went back for seconds, tail wagging furiously).

"Diagnosed with probable carsickness, prescribed ginger cookies," replied Sam, when he'd gotten his breath back. He went on to relate what he'd found out about Sylvia: she was originally from Oregon, studied at Stanford then University of Colorado, hated soap operas, loathed Oprah, listened to music that Dean would probably not mind, played softballl in a team that was on the bottom of the table but had a lot of fun, was terrible at skiing (but thoroughly enjoyed doing it badly), was currently re-reading 'A Clockwork Orange' and got around on an ancient Vespa scooter, named Giovanni. "Which, I might add, set Jimi's alarm bells ringing. He snarled at like it was possessed, but I couldn't find anything."

"We might want to check that out," mused Dean, "Jimi has a good nose for evil shit."

"How did you guys go?" asked Sam.

Temeriel looked confused. "Dean talked with Phillip," he related, "But I'm afraid they talked about things that just didn't make any sense..."

"It's okay," Sam assured him with a grin, "Dean often doesn't make sense when he talks."

"What is a pilot screw?" asked Temeriel. "It sounds like a very mean term for an Air Force officer's girlfriend..."

"There was a lot of car and engine talk, Tem," Dean explained.

The Cupid looked more confused. "There was also a picture on the wall of a lady mechanic, in a bikini," he read from his book, "Why was she not wearing overalls too?"

"Er, Angelina Jolie isn't a mechanic, Tem," grinned Dean.

"But you said you'd like her to tighten your nuts," said Temeriel, "And Phillip agreed he'd be happy to grease her nipples, even though she isn't a machine..."

Sam facepalmed.

"Also, there is no god of metal named Hetfield or Kilmister in any pantheon that I know of," the cherub went on. "Hephaestus does sing when he gets drunk, but I have to say that he doesn't sound terribly entertaining, and he only knows about three songs, and two of them are far too rude to be performed in public, not that _that_ stops him..."

"We'll have to see about educating you sometime, Tem," smiled Dean. "Still, we have a number of things to work with. Sport, good, music, kinda, and the Vespa, that's good, he's something of a small engines guru. Do you think she could get into lawnmower racing?"

"I think a woman who has a complicated relationship with an Iguana named Herbert would probably be up to try a lot of things," conceded Sam.

"Excellent!" Dean beamed. "So, all we've got to do is manoeuvre them into each other's space, and let two-stroke chemistry work its mojo."

"Should we have a grease thing gun handy in case they get along well?" asked Temeriel, "Or is the greasing of nipples one of those things that people prefer to do in private?"

Sam wondered if Jimi's anti-nausea meds would work on humans.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Back at the bar that evening, Sam and Dean hung around a pool table, waiting for Dean's charges to arrive. Sylvia came in first, bought one of those lurid drinks, and settled herself with a journal article.

"So, what do we do?" asked Temeriel, watching the game.

"We do some old-fashioned human match-making," Dean told him, smiling at a blonde woman with pneumatic assets, "Sam bumps into Sylvia and engages her in bland yet engaging platonic conversation, I bump into Phil and engage him with my wit and humour, then we all bump into each other, they meet, Sam asks after Sylvia's Vespa, I ask Phil if he's ever heard of a Vespa chasing a dog, they discover a mutual interest, we fade into the background, I call forth my bow, we hit 'em with the arrows, nature takes its course, happy ending. Possibly even a Happy Ending, if this evening holds the possibility of a beautiful, natural act between two mutually consenting adults..."

"You really do have a one-track mind, don't you?" grumped Sam.

"Two-track," Dean corrected him sunnily, "I have a two-track mind. I think about food a lot, too."

When Sylvia had nearly finished her drink, Dean looked at his watch then sent Sam on his way, with an order to offer to buy her another drink, and ask about Herbert. "Phil will be here soon, bro, so, go be engaging with the vet. Ask her to guess what breed of dog you got your hair from."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, wandering nonchalantly over to the bar.

Dean watched approvingly as Sam played his part to perfection, the surprised 'Fancy meeting you here', the friendly but not too forward approach, the casual conversation. He smiled with satisfaction. Phil would be arriving any minute, and they could wind this gig up tonight...

"Oh dear," said Temeriel in a worried voice behind him.

"What's the matter,Tem?" Dean leaned back casually and asked the apparently thin air beside him.

"It's Sylvia," Temeriel told him, "She's talking to Sam."

"Yeah, that's the plan, Tem," Dean agreed.

"No, I mean she's _talking_. To _Sam_," repeated Temeriel with concern. "Look!"

Dean humoured the angel by studying his brother and the vet.

"Oh, shit," he muttered.

He could've used his Acting Cupid acuity to peek into Sylvia's thoughts if he'd wanted to, but he was the Living Sex God, and he knew what a woman looked like when she was expressing more than a polite interest in a guy's conversation. With a stab of alarm, he took in her smile, the tilt of her head, the laugh together, oh, no, the quick touch on his arm, no, no, no, was she offering to buy him a drink?

He suddenly realised he did not want to look into any woman's mind and see her imagining doing anything with his little brother...

"That's not right," said Temeriel anxiously, "She's starting to think it might be fun to get to know Sam better!"

"No, no, no, no, no," growled Dean under his breath, willing his oblivious little brother to cool things off, "Back off, Sam, back off!"

Sylvia reached up and brushed an invisible speck from Sam's shirt, while he smiled uncertainly, and shot a surreptitious worried glance at Dean.

Dean stepped into the shadows, Cupidified, and strode over to his brother, standing behind Sylvia, while Temeriel watched and wrung his hands anxiously.

"Knock it off, Sam!" Dean hissed at him urgently, "She's trying to make a move on you!"

When Sylvia glanced away, Sam's eyebrows managed to transmit an astonishing amount of information. _I'm trying! Really!_ _All I did was ask her if her Vespa was all right, and now she's she's, she's chasing me! Save me, big bro!_

Dean could see that Sam was trying; he stepped back, but she followed him. Any woman who had been courted by Herbert the Incurably Romantic Green Iguana was not going to be easily deterred.

"Stop her, Dean, stop her!" called Temeriel desperately, "If she becomes romantically interested in Sam, our mission will fail! Please, Dean, do something!"

Dean let out a pained sigh. Desperate situations called for desperate acts.

"Follow my lead," he snapped at Sam, "And we will discuss the method by which you will die at my hands later."

With that, Dean turned and strode out of the bar, feathers rustling very grumpily.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It figured, sighed Sylvia, relating her encounter in the bar a week later over lunch with some girlfriends, all the good ones are taken, or, well...

He'd brought his dog in, a wonderful animal, a Rottweiler with beautiful manners. Jimi, his name had been, no, the dog, the guy was Sam, Jimi was the dog. Jimi had even tried to 'protect' her from her own scooter, wasn't that just adorable? They'd both been kind of sweet, was it silly to think that both a guy and his dog had lovely smiles? Anyway, she and Sam had just got chatting, and found that he'd been at Stanford, too, they'd both wangled easy A-grades from the same English professor with the same brown-nosing approach...

Anyway, she was just having a drink that night, looking at a journal, and when she glanced up, there he was! No, Sam, not the dog! And he came over, and they started talking, and he bought her a drink, and she thought hey, maybe her luck was changing, and he was really interesting, not pushy and cocky like some guys can be - charming, kind of shy, she thought, and he really did have a gorgeous smile, and let's be honest, he was kind of hot...

So, one minute, she was talking with him, and the next, there was this voice behind her calling "Sammy!", and she turned around and oh God, this other totally hot guy walked in, with a smile that could melt glass, and Sam looked really happy to see him, and he goes, "Dean!". Then this Dean guy walked up to Sam, and put an arm around him, and went up on his toes and he gave Sam a peck on the cheek, and he was like "There you are, I wondered where you'd got to! You better not stand me up, mister," and he pouted like Angelina Jolie, and Sam laughed,and looked a bit embarrassed, and gave her this look, like, "I'm really sorry, I tried to tell you," well, didn't she feel like a total idiot, but they were really nice, and Dean thanked her profusely for looking after Jimi, because "Some days, I swear he loves that dog more than he loves me," and he looked at Sam with this _Look_, and said "You never feed me ginger cookies, Sammy, why don't you feed me ginger cookies?" and Sam just went red, and she and Dean had laughed, and they'd bought her another drink.

Dean had been absolutely charming, weren't they always, and told her that she could have Sam when he'd finished with him if she really wanted, but there might not be much left, and he had _that _smile on again when he said that, and Sam went so red, and Dean said she should just be open to what the Earth Mother had planned for her, because "The right guy will just fall out of the sky when you least expect him, honey, I got a feeling about that for you!"

Just after that, it got really interesting. This _other _guy had shown up, in a trench-coat, and he gave Dean this really intense eye-sex stare, and just said, "Hello Dean," and Dean looked surprised to see him, and so did Sam, and Sam asked "What are you doing here?" and this third guy, they called him Kass, or something, he glared at Sam, and said, "Where else would I be?" Anyway, he kept staring at Dean, and said, "I do hope that Sam has not been attempting any unwanted interference with your trousers."! Then Dean went a bit red, and said no, no problem, everything was fine, and Sam gave this Kass guy an expression, a really bitchy scowl, that she'd only seen before on a really snooty Pekinese called Anastasia. Then, Sam accused Kass of needing to learn to keep his hands to himself, and Kass had just glared daggers back, and told Sam that he and Dean shared a 'profound bond' that he would never understand, and she'd excused herself at that point, because nobody wanted to get stuck in the middle of _that_ sort of argument, and it wouldn't surprise her in the least if Dean had been two-timing the pair of them, because he had that kind of screw-anything-that-moves vibe...

Her friends laughed and sympathised with her, but told her that the thing about the right guy falling out of the sky was right. The guy for her was out there, somewhere. If she wouldn't believe it from them, she should listen to this Dean person, because gay men always turned out to be right about that sort of thing.

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><p>Reviews are the Ginger Biscuits in the Back Seat of the Car Of Life!<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

We do not have iguanas Down Under (not legally, anyway), but it is possible to get a permit to keep water dragons, which can also get a little confused when raised in captivity – for many years, the last thing I saw as I went off to work was an Eastern Water Dragon (_Physignathus leseurii leseurii_ – go Google 'em, they're amazing) named Pugsley doing a very impressive virility display for me, showing me how red-chested and available he was. When he started to run up my legs of an evening, I had to sit down and have A Talk with him...

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

"Strangulation is a possibility," Dean mused to himself. "It has the benefits of not leaving blood everywhere, but I just know you'd struggle. Garrotting, perhaps? Less effort. Stabbing, effective, but messy. What about suffocating you with your own hair? A certain poetic justice to it..."

"Dean, knock it off!" griped Sam, "I didn't do it on purpose!"

"Make you drink your own shower gel and girly shampoo until your stomach explodes?" Dean went on. "Beat you to death with your laptop? Drown you in salad dressing? Aha! I have it! I'm going to feed you burritos, and lock you in the trunk of the car until you gas yourself!"

"It wasn't my fault!" insisted Sam, "I did nothing to lead her on! Make polite conversation, you said, ask her about Herbert you said, that's all I did!"

"You shouldn't have stood there looking so available!" Dean told him.

"What?" demanded Sam. "I didn't! I just stood there!"

"You totally did!" countered Dean. "You stood there looking buff and shy, it's an irresistible combination to some women. And I had to come up with an emergency strategy to counteract her interest. The Living Sex God had to parade himself as the Living Sex Queen! You've ruined the whole matchmaker plan! It won't work now – she'll think I'm some random gay guy with a Fiddler On The Roof fixation who's determined to fix her up with somebody!"

"No, Dean, she'll think you're some random gay guy who's doing the dirty on his boyfriend," sniped Sam, glaring at Castiel, "Because _somebody_ had to show up with inappropriate and pointed comments about interference with pants. We could still have pulled it off, except now, everybody in that bar thinks that you're some sort of two-timing asshole, and we only left so we'd have enough room to swing our handbags at each other..."

"I am aware of the agitation that your undue attention to his Cupidly attire causes Dean," intoned Castiel seriously, "And as his friend, I am of course concerned for his mental wellbeing." He turned to Dean. "Dean's plan was a very good one, well thought out, and I believe it would have worked," he went on. "Its failure is due to you and your inability to rebuff the advances of the young woman concerned. What's more, his emergency response to your incompetence was nothing short of brilliant. I thought you made a fabulous gay man, Dean," the angel added loyally.

Dean blinked at Castiel, trying to work out whether the angel had chosen that adjective on purpose. "Eh, thanks, Cas. I think."

"If you're so worried about his mental wellbeing, why are you invading his personal space again? As usual?" asked Sam pointedly.

"Close physical proximity is normal and frequently deemed reassuring between friends," Castiel announced, sounding somewhat snippy. "It is perfectly understandable that I would wish to protect Dean against your unseemly fascination with his pants."

"You petted the pants too!" accused Sam. "I saw you!"

"_You_ petted the pants," glowered Castiel, "_I _merely soothed them, after your selfish actions caused extreme agitation in his plumage." The angel turned one of those disturbingly fond smiles on Dean. "I want only what is best for Dean. He does not think of what is best for himself, because he is such a selfless individual."

"You got hit by an arrow!" fumed Sam, "And it's making you weird! Even weirder than usual!"

"I suggest to you that being fascinated by your brother's feathers might also be deemed weird," replied Castiel, in a dangerously mild tone, "As is your apparent resentment of my presence here. Do you not care about what is best for Dean?"

"Of course I do! He's my brother!" yelled Sam.

"And he is my charge," replied Castiel, actually looking angry. "I am beginning to wonder whether you are in fact jealous of the profound bond I share with Dean."

"What? You, you, you...self-righteous Purgatory-puncturing soul-sucking megalomaniac!" spluttered Sam in a burst of rage.

"Blood-drinking demon-mating abomination!" Castiel hissed back.

"HEY!" yelled Dean, "Cut it out! Both of you! Right now! What the hell's gotten into you?"

The sudden silence was punctuated by a miserable sniffle.

Temeriel stood, horrified, with tears running down his face. "Please stop fighting," he begged, "Please, stop being so horrible to each other!"

"Now look what you've done!" Dean snapped angrily at Sam and Castiel, who had the decency to look a bit shame-faced. "Hey, come here big guy," he went on. The cherub threw himself at Dean, and sobbed on his shoulder. "See? You've upset Tem!"

"I'm s-s-s-s-orry," wept the junior angel, "B-b-b-but I just hate it when friends fight, when brothers argue, it's so awful..."

Dean stepped back, and snagged a handful of tissues from the box on the table. "Blow," he instructed. Temeriel obeyed. "Better?" The angel nodded. "Now, I don't know what's gotten into you, Cas, and you're not helping Sam," Dean went on. "Tem, could it be something to do with the arrow that his Cas?"

"I don't know, really," Temeriel said apologetically, "That arrow went so fast, and behaved so strangely. We were always taught that it's very important that a single arrow never be fired without a pairing arrow. I don't know why – it never occurred to us to ask why, angels just don't think like that..."

"Dat ol' free will thing," mused Dean.

"I think it has something to do with 'balanced influences'," Temeriel continued, "So maybe it's leading Cas to be a bit, well, er..."

"Unbalanced?" suggested Sam more snidely than was really required. Castiel glared at him.

"Overtly demonstrative, is what I would've said," Temeriel qualified hurriedly, "He's, er, being influenced to express his, um, _agape_ towards Dean in an exaggerated fashion."

"Agapay?" Dean looked confused. "What the hell is an agapay? It sounds like a dodgy credit card scheme."

"_Agape_. It's a Greek word," Sam told him, "It means, well, brotherly love. Platonic, non-sexual affection. The sort of love God has for all his Creations, and that angels have for humankind. That would certainly explain some of his... less subtle actions and assertions."

"Oh, great," sighed Dean, "He had no concept of personal space to start with, and now he wants to shower me with brotherly love?"

"I have always felt great affection towards you, Dean," said Castiel sincerely, with another fond smile, "Since I raised your soul from Perdition, I have been able to see the good in you, the righteous determination to do the best thing for everyone. You are a gem amongst my Father's creations."

Sam let out a titter of amusement. Dean glared at him.

"All right," the elder Winchester said eventually, "We're all disappointed that Plan B didn't go exactly as intended, and we're all disappointed that we had to portray ourselves as gay men to save the mission... don't look at me like that you two, I'm telling you that you are disappointed... and we have an Angel of the Lord acting Under the Influence, and possibly thinking and saying things he wouldn't otherwise, and my little brother is still fascinated by my uniform, which is weird, shut up Sam, yes it is, and maybe we've all said things this evening that, with cooler heads, we wouldn't have done, and I'm sure nobody meant to upset Tem... so, I think we all need to take a breather, and have a nice hot cup of calm the fuck down. And plan our next move. Okay?"

There was a general murmuring of assent.

"So, what is our next move?" asked Sam.

"We go check out the doc's scooter, see if there's something going on there, since Jimi didn't like it," Dean told him. "We may also be able to use it. Did you say it had a name?"

"Yeah, Giovanni," Sam replied. "But she's nowhere near as attached to it as you are to your car. She calls it 'it', rather than 'him'."

"Still, when somebody gives a machine a name, there's some sort of attachment there," Dean pointed out. Maybe we can try to use that. Maybe a little bit of engine sabotage, maybe the day after a business card for Phil's workshop gets left tucked under the seat, it may not be a social setting or a social contact, but getting them introduced to each other is the primary aim here, right Tem?" The Cupid nodded eagerly. "So. Tomorrow night, we find out where Doctor Samgrabber lives, we check over the Vespa, and reassess from there."

"Very well," intoned Castiel, turning to the other angel. "Temeriel, I believe you still have some paperwork that requires your attention." Temeriel nodded glumly. "We will return later. Goodbye." With a swirl and a flap, they were gone.

Dean let out a deep sigh. "I really hope this whole brotherly love thing wears off once I resign," he said.

"So do I," agreed Sam, "He's getting, well, kind of... clingy. And possessive."

"Well, if he's Under the Influence, he can't help it," Dean pointed out, "You're going to have to be the bigger man here, Sam. So to speak. And not react, or provoke him."

"He petted your pants," Sam muttered darkly. "I don't care what he calls it, he _petted_ them."

"You're going to have to override that particular little perversion of your own, bro," Dean insisted, "Why you're so fascinated by my feathers, I cannot work out..."

"I, er, talked to Bobby about that, last night," Sam said, his face pinking slightly. "Because I've wondered about this compulsion myself. It's hard to describe – sitting here like this, I can say, sure, it's weird, it bugs you, I'll stop petting the pants, but once they're there, right in front of my, I just can't help it. They're so, so, soft, and downy, and, and, the way the move, the way they feel, and the way that light catches on the tips..."

"Sam! Snap out of it!" barked Dean. Sam shook himself, and looked sheepish. "So, what did Bobby say about your feather fetish?"

"He thinks it might be because they're, you know, angelic in nature," Sam related, still blushing. "You remember when I first met Castiel? How amazed, and awed, and overwhelmed I was? Well, he thinks it might be like that. Your pants are like a physical manifestation of... angelity. We can't see Castiel's wings, but we can see your pants. You're not affected, because you're an Acting Cupid, but, well, I'm just a human, and they are a manifestation of all the things that people associate with angels; that I associated with angels. Goodness, and virtue, and beauty, and, and, and rightness, and all those wonderful and admirable things that I imagined angels were supposed to be..."

"So, what you're saying," Dean said slowly, "Is that you might not 'believe' in angels any more, but you 'believe' in my pants?"

"It's a working theory," shrugged Sam, "And it would explain the compulsion to be near them. It would probably affect any other humans, or possibly other creatures, animals, that see them, if you decide to manifest visibly with them. Like Cas is under the influence of that stray arrow."

"Great. And you're under the influence of my virtuous pants," groused Dean. "Fuck my life. I've had some women declare that my pants held the key to experiencing Heaven on Earth, but coming from you, bro, having it explained doesn't make it any less creepy." He picked up his keys. "I'm off to visit my Den Of Iniquity," he announced. "You can stay here, or go find a self-help group. See if there's a chapter of Angel Shorts Anonymous that meets anywhere around here."

"If you're going out, you could leave your pants here," suggested Sam hopefully.

"Now, Sam," Dean replied firmly, "What sort of a brother would I be if I did that? That would be enabling behavior." He looked thoughtful. "Maybe we could try moderation."

"Huh?" Sam looked bemused.

"You know, wean you off the pants," Dean elaborated. "First, we get you to pet a fluffy kitten, then we get you a feather boa, then we get you a hat with a fluffy pom pom, and finally, we get you to the stage where all you need to do to satisfy those unnatural urges is touch your own hair occasionally..."

"Jerk," mumbled Sam.

"Don't wait up," grinned Dean. "Oh, and if I come back and find you've been going through my underwear, I will call the police."

Sam flipped him off.

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><p>Just a short chapter (for a Lampito story, anyway), but I felt that the phenomenon that is Dean's pants needed to be discussed and explored. I'm sure that a number of the Denizens will agree, Dean's pants should be thoroughly explored...<p>

Please send reviews - I tried going to Review Addicts Anonymous, and they threw me out as a hopeless case.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam isn't the only one who's fascinated by Dean's feather pants, is he? Denizens; they're depraved, even if they do get shit done.

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

Sam stared at the sentence before him. It was underlined in red ink. Well, to be honest, the entire page was covered in red ink corrections, but this particular sentence was underlined three times.

" 'Covered in melted chocolate, they ate some marshmallows together'," he read aloud.

"Well, they did," Temeriel said a little defensively, "She had this old fondue set that her mother had been given as a wedding present, and he said he'd seen a fondue at a Seventies party, and since their trip to the beach was rained out, they decided to try it with chocolate – they both have a taste for candy, and..."

"What you've got here, Tem," Sam explained, "Is a classic example of a dangling modifier. The modifier – the description, if you like – is the 'covered in chocolate' bit. It should apply to the object here, which is the marshmallows. But the way you've written it, it could equally apply to the subject – they. So, it sounds like the people are covered in chocolate, while they eat some marshmallows."

Temeriel looked thoughtful. "They did that, too," he added, "But not until much later, the night that he proposed to her, in fact..."

"And this one," Sam moved on hurriedly to the next example, feeling grateful that Dean wasn't present to ask for specifics, or share the details of one of his own confection-coated conquests. " 'Sitting on the picnic rug, the mosquitoes annoyed them'. The modifier, 'sitting on the rug', is dangling – it doesn't have a subject it is clearly applied to. Who was sitting on the rug? The people, or the mosquitoes? The way it's written, it could be either."

The light of understanding dawned on Temeriel's face as Sam made corrections. "So, if you write 'They ate some marshmallows, which they dunked in chocolate' and 'While they were sitting on the rug, they were annoyed by mosquitoes', it's clear that the marshmallows are covered in chocolate, and the mosquitoes are not actually sitting on the rug. See?'

"Thank you, Sam!" Temeriel beamed sunnily, and hugged Sam gratefully. "That's a wonderful explanation!"

"You're welcome, Temeriel," wheezed Sam.

"Danael never explains what's wrong," the cherub went on, "She just leaves lots of red marks." He looked a little fearful. "Do you think she might actually use demon blood for ink?" he asked tentatively.

Sam frowned at the page, raised it to his nose, and sniffed.

"Absolutely not," he stated firmly, "This is definitely not demon blood. Just red ink. Believe me, if it was demon blood, I could tell," he added wryly.

Temeriel looked relieved. "Oh, I am _so_ glad to hear that," he said. "I thought it was probably just a story, but, well, if anybody could bite a demon's head off it would be Danael, but that would mean..." the Cupid suddenly teared up. "If Lucifer is the father of all demons, well, that would mean that she was biting the heads off her nephews and nieces... my nephews and nieces... and that would be a horrible thing to do..." he started to sniffle again.

"It's definitely not demon blood," Sam repeated, pushing the tissues towards Temeriel. "So there's no, er, extended family killings going on."

Temeriel honked into a tissue. "I'm sorry," he sobbed, "It's silly of me, probably, but I still get upset about it, after all this time. Family shouldn't fight. Brothers shouldn't fight... I miss them both..." he began to cry in earnest.

"Oh, Temeriel, Tem, it's okay," Sam patted him tentatively on the shoulder.

"They were such wonderful big brothers," the cherub went on between sobs, "Father wasn't there, but Michael was, and Lucifer was so good with the fledglings, and then they had _that_ argument, and Lucifer argued with Father, and Michael argued with Lucifer, although he didn't want to, and Lucifer really didn't want to argue with Michael, but Michael always backed up what Father said, and, and, and, it turned into the most terrible fight..."

"Yeah, I know what that's like," Sam sympathised. "It is horrible when family fights."

"I don't blame you, you know," sniffled Temeriel, "I'm glad you stopped them fighting again – they would've destroyed so much. When they get angry at each other, they just don't realise what sort of damage they can do, to each other, and everybody around them."

"It's a brother thing, Tem," Sam smiled ruefully, "One day, maybe they'll figure it out and sort out their differences."

Temeriel looked up hopefully. "You think so?" he asked plaintively.

"Where there's life, there's hope," Sam told him. "They have all the time in the world to work it out. They might."

Temeriel brightened up considerably at that. "That would be wonderful," he sighed. He looked back at his report. "When I see them again, I'll be able to tell them how much my reports have improved," he smiled.

They had moved on to a discussion on the humane treatment of apostrophes when Dean returned.

"What are you ladies doing?" he asked, putting down the take out and gasping to get his breath back after Temeriel's hug of greeting.

"Tem arrived a bit early, so we're doing some work on his report," Sam told him. Tem nodded happily.

"We've done dangling modifiers, split infinitives, prepositions, and apostrophes," the cherub reported. "Danael in Reception will be pleased – she's always saying that the general standard of first submission reports is something up with which she will not put!"

"Up with which she will not put?" echoed Dean.

Temeriel nodded emphatically. "A preposition is not a thing with which to end a sentence," he intoned seriously. He waved his ever-present notebook. "I've made a list."

"That's, er, great," said Dean faintly. "Congratulations, Dr Samenstein, you've created a monster."

"It's no worse that it was correcting your English essays," Sam replied breezily, "Except Temeriel is a lot more interested in learning to get it right himself."

"Paperwork is stupid," Dean asserted. "When somebody starts paying me to do it, I'll start taking an interest in the formal niceties of grammar. Hey, Tem, you like wings?"

Temeriel looked confused. "Well, I've always thought that my brothers have quite beautiful wings..."

"No, no, I mean chicken wings. Fried wings. From chickens. As food. Do you like to eat fried chicken wings?" Dean specified.

Temeriel still looked confused. "I don't know," he admitted, "I haven't eaten any. I don't need to, because my Grace sustains me and my manifestation."

Dean smiled broadly, opening the box and taking out a fried wing for Jimi. "Tem, man, screw the grammar, you need educating about the really important things of the human realm." Jimi sat attentively, licking his chops, eyeing the wing keenly. He took it carefully, then downed it in one gulp, turning on the Big Brown Eyes in the hope of soliciting another one. "Here," Dean held the box out to the angel, "You try one."

Temeriel tentatively reached into the box, and removed a fried item. He sniffed at it carefully, and looked surprised. "It smells... really good," he said.

"Er, perhaps if you've never eaten anything before, you should try something a bit more, uh, innocuous first, maybe a piece of fruit..." suggested Sam.

At Dean's urging, Temeriel bit into the wing. His eyes bugged, and he actually gasped.

"Well?" prompted Dean.

"That's... that's... that's... " the cherub stuttered.

"Disgusting? Greasy? Nauseating?" suggested Sam.

"That's... completely wonderful!" squeaked Temeriel, chewing and swallowing. "Oh, Father, that's... amazing!"

"Good, huh?" grinned Dean, as Sam scowled at him, "Here, why don't you take the box. Share with Jimi."

The angel took the box of wings with a grateful smile.

"You're supposed to be helping him learn about human pairing customs, not teaching him questionable dietary habits!" snarked Sam, as Temeriel carefully counted out the wings, dividing them between himself and the dog.

"Hey, eating is a very important part of human pairing customs," Dean asserted, digging into his own burger.

"That's true," conceded Temeriel, giving Jimi another wing, "Although it's hard to understand. Chocolate, for instance. I've observed it being used in different situations pertaining to human pairing. A man seeking to form a relationship will offer a woman chocolate as a token of affection. However, this can be badly received if the woman is overly thin. That's never made sense to me; thin women, who could clearly use the calorific content, sometimes become angry if offered chocolate, whereas women of average size, who do not need it so much, are happy to receive it, and enjoy it immensely. Also, after a relationship ends, women will buy themselves chocolate, or their friends will buy them chocolate, but this is not construed as an invitation to form another relationship. Then, at a certain time in a woman's hormonal cycle, a man who is already in a well-established relationship with her will buy her chocolate, expecting nothing but possibly being called some very rude names..."

"Chocolate is a chick thing, Tem," Dean told him, "I don't' think it is possible to understand it. You might as well ask, why do fried wings taste good? Why do birds fly? Why is the sky blue?"

"Fried wings taste good because they are high in fat, which the human brain has been programmed to recognise and seek out as calorie-dense nutrition," answered Sam, "Which, 30,000 years ago when the species evolved, would've been an important survival trait. Birds fly because the extensive modification of their forelimbs into wings over many generations conferred an evolutionary advantage. The sky is blue because of Rayleigh scattering of sunlight – blue light has a shorter wavelength and is more extensively scattered by the atmosphere than red light, so..."

A crumpled up burger bag hit him in the side of the head.

"Pay no attention to geek boy, Tem," Dean instructed as Sam yelped and glared at him, "He can't explain chocolate either."

"It probably involves the chemical components caffeine and theobromine," Sam went on, scowling at his brother, "Along with the high fat content. There's probably also a certain amount of cultural conditioning going on..."

"Let's go check out Giovanni the scooter," suggested Dean, "And turn that damned brain down. You're going to hurt somebody with that thing."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The apartment in which the vet lived was part of a building with an unfortunately discreet but well thought out approach to security.

"Hey, Tem, do you think you could smite that light up there?" asked Dean.

Temeriel looked doubtful. "That's vandalism," he pointed out.

"It's a small sacrifice to make in order to complete our mission," Dean told him firmly. "Go on, it's not alive, or anything."

Temeriel didn't look completely happy, but he stared at the security lamp until it blew, giving Dean cover to break into the garage.

The battered scooter was easy to locate. Once more, Jimi growled at it.

"Okay, fella," whispered Dean, "We'll check it out." Sam took his flashlight and examined the rest of the garage, while Temeriel held the torch for Dean as he looked the scooter over.

"This doesn't make sense," Dean mused, "This thing is in terrible shape. I mean, yeah, it's a classic, but the mechanics of it are in bad condition." He took the torch from Temeriel, and peered more closely at the engine. "I don't know how this thing is even running."

Jimi growled again, and sniffed and scrabbled at the seat.

"What's he found?" asked Sam.

"I dunno," replied Dean, checking the seat, "It's kind of creepy, though, J-Man, seat-sniffing," he grinned, "If I did that, Sam would whack me upside the head."

There was a small tear in the underside of the seat. Dean poked at it with his knife.

"There's something in there," he realised.

A bit of poking and pulling revealed a hex bag.

"What the hell is that doing there?" asked Dean, bewildered. "Is somebody trying to hex Doctor Samgrabber?"

Temeriel stared at the small bag. "I don't think so," he said, "I don't think there is any... malevolent intent to this. It appears to be... it's hard to describe, but it's a helper, rather than a hinderer."

Sam took the bag, and peered into it with his flashlight. "I think he's right," he said, "I can see snakeskin agate, marjoram, and... what looks like a piece of wholemeal pasta." He poked into the bag. "It also appears to contain a very small toy motorcycle." He looked up. "I think this might be what's keeping the scooter running, if it's in bad condition otherwise," he theorised.

"So, Doctor Samgrabber is actually a witch?" asked Dean.

"No, that doesn't make sense," Sam replied, "If she was in any way malevolent, Jimi would've picked up on her immediately. You know he has what you call a nose for evil shit." He paused. "Of course, that still doesn't explain why he's so unhappy about the bag, if it's benevolent in intent."

"Maybe someone else did it for her," suggested Temeriel, "People sometimes prepare charms and spells for the benefit of others."

"Could the fact that she's used one interfere with the whole Cupid's arrow thing?" asked Dean.

"I don't know," Temeriel admitted. "It might, but I haven't ever encountered a problem like this before."

Dean appeared to be thinking. "Okay," he decided, "We can't just remove it. I'm pretty sure this thing won't run at all if we take away it's hex bag. We don't want Giovanni here completely dead – I was only going to make him cough and splutter a bit. If it just dies completely, in the condition it's in, only an enthusiast would tackle restoring it..."

He stepped back, cleared this throat, and called forth his bow.

"What are you doing?" asked Temeriel, as Dean nocked an arrow and Sam attempted to sidle up to his brother.

"Testing a theory," grinned Dean, drawing and firing.

His aim was put off a little when he felt Sam's hand on his thigh, but nonetheless, the small golden arrow disappeared into the Vespa.

"You shot the Vespa with an arrow," said Sam in confusion, as Dean slapped his hand away.

"Yes I did," Dean confirmed, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to shoot one into his owner..."

Back outside the garage, he looked at the building. "Okay," he turned to Sam, "Which apartment is she in?"

"That one," answered Temeriel, pointing to a window on the fifth floor.

"Right," said Dean smugly, "Tem, get up there and shoot an arrow into Doc Samhandler."

"Er," mumbled Temeriel, "I can't."

Dean did a double take. "What?" he demanded. "What? What do you mean, you can't?"

"I can't complete your mission!" the cherub told him anxiously. "I had no idea what you were planning to do! You are the one with the plan, and the intent. You have to do it. And soon."

"What?" said Dean again. "But... that apartment is on the fifth floor!"

A quick recon of the building made it evident that breaking in was not going to be an option – the security really was well thought out.

"Can't I just lie in wait until she comes out tomorrow?" asked Dean desperately.

Temeriel shook his head. "No," he said emphatically, "That will be too late. You have to do it now!"

"So, what?" humphed Dean, "We go steal a fire truck with a ladder, and I climb on up there?"

"You could fly," suggested Temeriel. "You are an Acting Cupid."

"Fly?" gulped Dean.

"How?" asked Sam. "He doesn't know how to fly. How do you fly?"

"I don't think I can explain it," ansered the Cupid sheepishly, "It's just... something you think about, and your wings just do it."

"I don't actually have wings," Dean pointed out, "All I got was the pants."

Sam stared hard at Dean's pants. "Pants," re confirmed. "Pants covered in feathers."

Dean's eyes crossed.

"No," he said firmly, "No, no, that cannot be possible. It cannot, cannot be possible."

"I think you gotta try, dude," shrugged Sam.

"Dean, it's important," Temeriel said.

"Oh, God," sighed Dean, "I know for a fact, the universe hates me. So, all I gotta do is concentrate on... flying..."

Dean swallowed, took a deep breath, and thought about the mission, thought about the urgency of the second arrow. He thought about... flying.

The feathers on his pants began to rustle.

"I think something's happening, bro," Sam told him, "Concentrate harder!"

"I think I'm just getting agitated simply thinking about flying," muttered Dean.

"No, no, really, something's happening!" Sam said, "They look kind of... co-ordinated..."

Dean continued to concentrate. The ripples of motion moved more strongly, more coherently, across his pants. Sam was right, the feathers were waving, flapping, beating, synchronising in lines that moved from waistband to hem with increasing speed...

"Keep it up, Dean, keep it up!" encouraged Sam, "I think you're warming up for take-off!"

Dean gritted his teeth, and thought _up_...

His pants began to hum gently.

"That's it, Dean, that's it!" Temeriel told him, "Now think about your destination!"

Dean's stomach lurched as the idle of his pants kicked up a tone, taking on a more businesslike note, and he rose gently into the air.

_Up_, he thought,_ up, up, up, like a helium balloon, a really, really, unhappy helium balloon..._

"You've done it, bro!' he heard Sam call from a gut-wrenching distance below him, "You're there!"

"You'll have to open your eyes to fire your arrow, Dean," Temeriel pointed out helpfully.

"Right. Right. Open eyes. In mid air. Five storeys up. Held up by nothing but my heavenly pants," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, staring fixedly ahead, seeing the outline of Sylvia the vet under the bedclothes.

He called forth his bow, nocked an arrow, and watched it disappear through the window, into Sylvia as she slept.

"Okay," he declared shakily, "Done. Now, how do I get back down?"

"Think about landing on the ground," instructed Temeriel, "Let your feathers do the work, think about landing!"

_Landing, landing_, thought Dean furiously, _Landing, back on the ground, drifting gently down to the ground, from five storeys up, landing gently, not crashing, not crashing, not crashing to the ground, from five fucking storeys up, crashing, crashing, why am I thinking about crashing..._

He was still three storeys off the ground when his pants spluttered, fluttered chaotically, and...

"Don't stall!" cried Temeriel, "Don't stall!"

Dean's pants stalled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Fortunately for Dean, his Cupidly physical robustness meant that he was not hurt – he escaped with a few bruises, and a determination never to fly again. He was so rattled, he even let Sam soothe his rustling pants.

"Oh, God, kill me now," he moaned, as Jimi licked anxiously at his face and Sam stroked anxiously at his pants. "Before it gets any worse." He paused. "No, scratch that," he humphed, "I've fallen out of the air, wearing feathery pants, everything aches, and my brother is contentedly stroking my thigh. And my pants seem to be enjoying it. It can't get any worse..."

Jimi growled, eyes suddenly crackling red as he stopped licking at Dean and sniffed across the ground.

"What is it, J-Man?" asked Sam, leaving Dean's rustling pants and following the dog with his flashlight beam. He trained the beam on the patch of ground that the dog worried at. "Oh, shit."

Jimi had found a patch of sulphur.

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><p>Reviews are the Delicious Fried Chicken Wings in the Take Out Box Of Life!<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

PaulatheCat, you can _never_ love your transport too much. I speak as someone who carries photos of her bikes in her wallet. Boadicea is 16; her birthday is January 13. Druss is 6; his birthday is September 22 (incidentally, same day as Bilbo and Frodo Baggins). They are my wheelbabies. My husband's whizz-bang 4WD Earthfucker 5000 or whatever it is parks in the driveway, because the wheelbabies get dibs on the garage. If the house ever catches fire, he's on his own, because he can get out by himself, but my wheelbabies will need me...

At to Dean's pants having their own show, would it be just the pants? Or the pants with Dean in them? What would be the genre? Superhero pants? Crimefighting pants? CSI pants? Sit com pants? Talk show pants? The mind boggles.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

"What are you doing?" asked Dean as Sam slouched down in shotgun.

"Hiding," answered Sam promptly. "If she glances over here, and sees me watching her, it'll be... weird."

"How will it be weird?" asked Dean.

"She'll think I'm actually bi, and I'm having second thoughts about you, because you're clearly a two-timing asshole, and that I'm actually returning her interest, and then it will all get weird," mumbled Sam.

"You're safe, Sammy," grinned Dean. "Obviously, now she's seen me, she'll realise that she cannot possibly complete with the Living Sex God for anybody's affections. Besides which, she only has eyes for Giovanni. Look."

As they watched, the vet parked her aged scooter outside the surgery, smilingly said goodbye to it, and gave it a fond smile and a pat on the handlebar.

"So, she's as creepily infatuated with her scooter as you are with your car," Sam conceded, "Now what?"

"I just gotta come up with a way to make the scooter feel sick," Dean replied, rolling his neck and wincing. "I'm thinking the fuel line. It's just about ready to fall off the tank by itself. I perform a harmless, easily remedied bit of sabotage while they're both in the bar, she is distraught that something's wrong with her darling Giovanni, Phil the mechanic comes to her aid..."

"How do you know Phil the mechanic will come to her aid?" Sam wanted to know.

"Because you are going to tuck this under the seat strap," Dean smiled, handing over a business card for the auto shop Phil hailed from, "Which means that, serendipitously, she will have somebody to call. He'll be right in the bar, he'll come out, and, thwap!"

"Thwap?" echoed Sam dubiously.

"Thwap. Or twang. Whatever. Tem or myself gets 'em with the arrows, match is made, job is done, Tem writes report, roll credits," Dean elaborated.

"I can't go over there!" Sam remonstrated with his brother, "You go!"

"I'm not goin' anywhere," growled Dean, "That doesn't involve hot water, a spa bath, a bottle of Jack, and for preference a girl with mad massage skills. I am both mentally and physically traumatised, Sam, I'm _traumatised_ after having to fly by my pants to a fifth floor window, then crashing from thirty feet up because my pants stalled, then having my brother calm my pants afterwards. A man needs to recover from an experience like that."

"What if she sees me?" Sam practically whined.

"Tell her I sent you to get your hair clipped, and your nails trimmed," Dean replied airily. "Just watch out for the thermometer."

"Jerk."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean hadn't been kidding. After Sam had scuttled across the road trying to look inconspicuous to tuck the card under the Vespa's seat, Dean had moved them to a decidedly more upmarket motel. Sam had shot him a concerned look; for as long as he could remember, Dean was the one who had worried about covering costs, and found ever more ingenious ways to stretch their usually meagre funds as far as possible. But now, true to his word, he sat in a bubbling spa bath, a bottle of Jack beside him, sighing happily.

"Are you sure you didn't get a concussion when you fell last night?" Sam asked him. "Because this is out of our usual price range for accommodation."

"No problem, bro, I got it covered," Dean reassured his brother. "While you have been nerding it up at the library, or giving angels grammar lessons, I have been working hard to improve our fiscal resources."

Sam frowned. "You keep telling me you're off to your Den Of Iniquity," he commented.

"What do you think I'm doing there, Sam?" reaching languidly for the bottle. "I'm being industriously and profitably iniquitous!"

"You've been playing poker?" asked Sam dubiously.

"Mostly. Some blackjack too," Dean told him.

"Dean," Sam's eyes narrowed, "You haven't been using your Cupidly talents to do anything that might technically be counted as robbery, have you?"

"What?" Dean gave him an expression that was strangely similar to the one Jimi wore when forced into a bath – a combination of hurt, betrayal, and possible plans of revenge by flatulence later. "No! No! Absolutely not! I have remained totally visible at all times! How could you even think such a thing?"

"Because you're you," answered Sam matter-of-factly.

Dean's face fell even further. "I'm hurt, Sam," he said, in a small voice, sighing heavily, "I'm more hurt than angry. I've been slaving, I tell you, _slaving_, over a hot deck of cards, to put a roof over our heads, and gas in the tank, and salad in the Sasquatch..."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"And is it such a bad thing if, from time to time, I want to enjoy the fruits of my labour?" Dean went on plaintively. "And seeing my precious baby brother stretch out on a bed he actually fits into, he just looks so adorable and positively angelic when he sleeps, it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside..." Dean stopped just short of batting his eyelashes.

Sam gave his brother a dose of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), but let the matter drop. After all, he couldn't see Dean sitting in a poker game in a bar somewhere wearing nothing but his feathery pants. "All right. I'm sorry. I just don't want to see you abusing your position."

"Well, you can make it up to me by doing a catering run," Dean told him, as he stretched out to retrieve his wallet, and threw some bills at Sam. "Go get me some food. And I want Doritos. And jerky. And pie. Oh, and get some doughnuts, I told Tem I'd introduce him to doughnuts. And more booze. And get yourself whatever you like to eat, Sammy, get yourself, get yourself a whole lettuce!" Dean gestured expansively. "A whole lettuce, and you can eat it all yourself, you don't have to share with anybody!"

"Wow, thanks so much," muttered Sam.

"And you can have an entire bottle of salad dressing, all to yourself!" Dean added, "Buy a tomato! Buy a corn kernel! Hell, buy a whole cob of 'em! Buy as much broccoli as you can eat in an entire afternoon! Nothing is too good for my baby bro!"

"Hey, big spender," Sam picked up the keys. As he did so, he heard a knock at the door.

Drawing his gun, he checked through the window.

A small van marked 'Melanie's Mobile Massage' was parked next to the Impala. A young blonde lady, presumably Melanie, stood on the doorstep.

"Er, Dean," he called uncertainly, "There's a, uh, woman at the door..."

"Oh that'll be Melanie!" said Dean happily, emerging from the bathroom in a towel. "Go on, Sammy," he said encouragingly, "There's an apple out there somewhere with your name on it!" He opened the door with a barely-attenuated version of the Killer Smile in place.

Sam took the opportunity to flee.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Now, this one is called a glazed doughnut, because of the icing stuff on it," explained Dean, handing the pastry to Temeriel, who sat in the back seat of the Impala. The angel sniffed curiously at it, then bit into it, his eyes going wide.

"Ohhhh, that is wonderful! Just wonderful!" he rhapsodised in amazement.

"You think that's good, try one of these," grinned Dean, handing over another one, "This one is blueberry."

Temeriel took the second doughnut, and crammed a large bite into his mouth, making more noises of enjoyment. "I had no idea that eating was such a rewarding experience," he said in wonder.

"You know, the last time I heard someone making noises like that, it was Dean, and I slept in the car while he, uh, entertained a female acquaintance," noted Sam.

Temeriel suddenly turned serious. "That's two I've eaten," he remarked, "I must avoid being a glutton. Gluttony is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Castiel will be very disappointed in me if I commit gluttony. How many of these can a person eat before it is regarded as gluttony?"

"Oh, about twenty-five," said Dean dismissively, as Sam rolled his eyes. "This isn't gluttony, Tem, this is education. Cas practically ordered you to learn about human culture – well, high-calorie nutrient-free food is about as representative of North American culture as you can get. So, if you check out as many doughnuts as possible, that's not gluttony, that's diligence." The angel beamed happily at Dean's reasoning. "Now, this one, this one is powdered, because of the sugar on it, and filled with strawberry and cream..." He snagged one for himself, as Temeriel happily sampled the next offering.

"Truly, the wonder of my Father's work never ceases to amaze me," he sighed happily.

"You aint tried nothing yet," grinned Dean. "This one is a glazed chocolate one..."

Temeriel took a bite, chewed, then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the seat.

"Temeriel?" said Sam anxiously, turning around to shake the cherub's shoulder, "Tem? Tem? Are you all right?"

"I think I have seen Father," sighed Temeriel dreamily, "I must tell Castiel."

By the time Sylvia's scooter puttered into the parking lot of the bar, Dean had fed the Cupid two boxes of Krispy Kremes and Sam had put the earbuds for his iPod in, because the noises were becoming truly disturbing, and Dean's monologue was giving him a strong urge to whack his big brother upside the head.

"Hey," he whacked Dean in the arm, causing him to drop the chocolate with sprinkles doughnut he was holding, "She's here."

"Hey!" snapped Dean, retrieving his doughnut from the seat, "Watch it Sammy, you do not mess with a man's doughnuts!"

"Much as I hate to interrupt your orgy of ingestion, Sylvia's arrived," Sam repeated, giving Dean a disgusted look. "Of course, if she comes out and finds her beloved scooter all covered in sticky icing fingerprints, she's going to get suspicious..."

"You know, you really need to eat a couple of these," Dean told him, wiping his hands on his jeans, "You know how cranky you get when you have PMS and your blood sugar drops."

They watched the vet pat the scooter fondly, then head for the bar. Five minutes later, Phil the mechanic's pick-up pulled into the lot.

"Okay," Dean said, "You get in there and keep an eye on Dr Samgrabber and her intended. Tem, you go with him, in case you have an opportunity to zap either one of them from there. I'll pop the fuel line off, and call you. Got that?"

"...Do...not... mess... with...a... man's... doughnuts," Temeriel wrote diligently in his notebook.

"Got it," confirmed Sam.

Before they left, Dean asked Temeriel to smite another light, so he could have a bit of shadow to work in. Once they'd left for the bar, he finished off the last doughnut (he'd kept the custard-filled chocolate one for himself. He was a glutton. So sue him. Doughnuts didn't count. God had proscribed the Seven Deadly Sins before the invention of doughnuts – if push came to shove, he was pretty sure he could talk Castiel into organising an exemption for doughnuts), then headed for the scooter.

He was just preparing to flip the seat when he heard a female voice behind him say,

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

With his most charming smile in place, he turned around to see a twenty-something woman with long legs, a short skirt, and a rack like two basketballs fighting in a gym sack.

"Oh, hi," he said, "I saw this and just had to come over and have a look. Is it yours? What is it, 1961, 62? It's amazing it's still running! I thought I could smell gas. I just wondered if there was a leak in the fuel line. The age of it, and all, I'd hate to see it catch fire, or something..."

"Yeah, it's mine," said the young woman, relaxing at his explanation, and smiling as she took in the sight of him, "But you don't have to worry about it. It's fine. Just a bit old, but nothing wrong with it. Are you an enthusiast?"

"Not exactly," he told her, alarm bells going off, "But I do take an interest in them. There is one thing, I know about this particular scooter, though," he added with a cocky grin.

She slid closer to him, her chest in the low-cut top making him think of custard-filled doughnuts. "And what is that?" she purred.

"It doesn't belong to you," he said with a smirk, "But I'm really curious to know why you told me it does."

The woman's face suddenly fell, and Dean heard malicious laughter behind him.

He turned to see two men grinning at him, one a balding man in his forties, the other younger, about the woman's age, with unfortunate acne.

"Oh, poor thing," tutted the man in his forties, "You've just spoiled her evening. I can see it in her face – look, she was hoping to have a bit of fun with you, but you're no concerned citizen wanting to save a young lady from a scooter accident. I'm curious to know what a Hunter is doing meddling with this scooter."

"A Hunter?" the young woman's face went from surprise to anger.

"Yes, a Hunter," said the older man patiently. "You really are going to have to learn to pay attention."

"Never mind," said the young woman, her eyes bleeding to black, "I'm sure I can still have fun with him. Maybe just not the sort of fun I was considering about sixty seconds ago."

Dean wondered if, before disappearing, God had contracted out retribution for comitting the Seven Deadly Sins. Athough being afflicted with demons did seem like a bit of overkill just for eating doughnuts.

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><p>Reviews are the Happy Hours of Quality Time with your Wheelbabies in the Garage Of Life!<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

Fear not, ladeez of the DDD&SSS, Melanie was a genuine masseuse, and there was no Unprofessional Behaviour in their encounter, and all activity was strictly therapeutic. Even the Living Sex God has to have a day off from time to time. And she certainly didn't leave him with a cute little bandana tied around his neck.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

"So, there are a number of other attacks after that," Sam explained, "And there's a red herring where there are two kids messing around with a fin to scare people, and the mayor doesn't want to close beaches because they're at the busiest time of the vacation season, and it would cost the town money..."

"It doesn't make sense," frowned Temeriel, "_Carcharodon carcharias_ is naturally a shy animal. They tend to avoid noisy beaches and humans, unless they mistake a human for a prey animal, like a seal, or are very hungry and desperate, and an animal as big as the one that you're describing would not fit into that category. They certainly do not display the sort of vindictive behaviour attributed to it in this case; that sort of thing is, sadly, prevalent in primates…"

"It's only a story, Tem," Sam reminded him, "It's not real. Science knows a lot more about great white sharks now, and they are a declared vulnerable species, so in reality, they'd just close the beach until it went away. Anyway, in this story, it's fiction, remember, he finds this older guy who's a shark hunter, and… er Tem? Are you all right?"

Temeriel suddenly looked anxious. "Something is… not right," he said uncertainly.

"Uh, it could be all those doughnuts you ate," suggested Sam, "Dean's had decades to condition his digestive system to the disgusting things he eats – does your physical manifestation have a pancreas? Because if it doesn't…"

"No, no, that's not what I mean," clarified Temeriel. The cherub looked thoughtful, then called forth his trusty notebook. "What I mean," he went on, leafing through the pages, "Is that… there is a disturbance in the Force!" he looked up at Sam, beaming. "Did I use that phrase correctly?"

"If you mean that you've got a weird intuitive feeling that something not good is happening, yes you did," Sam told him. Temeriel looked ecstatic.

"Oh, Dean will be so pleased! Just let me make a note, I must put that in my report…"

"Er, Tem," pressed Sam, "If there's a disturbance in the Force, should we go check it out?"

"Perhaps you should stay here and watch our charges, in case Dean calls," Temeriel suggested. "I'll see if there is something happening that is relevant to our mission." With that, the cherub disappeared.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Somebody's been messing with the hex bag," declared Pimple Boy, checking the scooter. The demon wearing the older meatsuit quirked an eyebrow.

"Indeed? Curiouser and curiouser. Tell me, Mr Hunter," he smiled, "Whatever are you doing taking an interest in the hex bag under the seat of an elderly scooter?"

"You know, I could ask you the same thing," said Dean conversationally.

"And I would tell you to mind your own business," replied Executive Demon, equally casually.

"No, really, I do want to know," Dean went on, "Because I've been racking my brains to try to figure out what a demon would be doing..."

"A_hem_," the demon wearing the busty female body cleared her throat pointedly. "The hex bag was actually my idea."

"...Sorry, demons, plural, I've been trying to figure out what demons would be doing trying to keep a decrepit scooter going. I mean, I'm all for appreciation and restoration of Classics, sure, even if scooters really aren't my thang, motorised suppositories don't do it for me, but I cannot for the life of me figure out why demons would employ benevolent magic to do something nice for somebody for no return. So, what do you get out of it?"

"Life is just full of little mysteries," purred Gym Sack Girl, her eyes melting to black, "Unfortunately for you, this is going to be one of those little mysteries that you just never figure out. Because your life is about to end."

Dean found himself shoved across the lot to fall ungracefully in the mouth of the alley beside the venue.

"You know what you forgot to do?" he wheezed, getting to his feet as the smiling demons closed in on him, "You're supposed to twirl your moustache while you deliver a line like that. Baldilocks there is right, you really do need to learn to pay attention."

Gym Sack Girl sneered, and raised her hand again, but hesitated at the low rumbling growl that filled the alley.

"What the fuck...?" asked Pimple Boy.

The outline of a large dog, with glowing red eyes, filled the mouth of the alley behind them.

Dean grinned. "Gentlemen, and lady," he nodded to Gym Sack Girl, "May I present... the cavalry."

Jimi went straight for Baldilocks, who appeared to present the most imminent threat to his Alpha; the demon was horrified to find that he could not use his power to hurl the dog aside. It extruded teeth like knives, teeth he recognised, and grabbed his arm...

Going toe to toe with the other two, Dean found himself amazed that he held up as well as he did – he actually landed punches, and they actually seemed to hurt the demons, so they had to be very low-level, bottom-of-the-food-chain demons – but they were still demons, and he could tell that they were getting the upper hand...

"Stop it!" yelled a horrified voice, "Stop it! Stop it RIGHT NOW!"

In disbelief, the demons stopped using Dean as a punchinig bag.

Temeriel stood quivering with astonished outrage, his chins wobbling as he glared at the demons. "What do you kids think you are doing?" he demanded.

"Oh, no," moaned Baldilocks, swatting ineffectually at Jimi, "Didn't you give up and go away, Tiny Tim?"

"What's he doing back again?" Gym Sack Girl positively whined, "I thought we'd seen the last of you! You blubbering, bloated bag of nauseating happily-ever-after!"

"Great, just great," griped Pimple Boy, dabbing at his bleeding nose, "Fat Boy is back on the job. Take a hint, Moby Dick, and give up."

"I can't believe they're having a fourth try," sneered Gym Sack Girl, "They're masochists, as well as fat and stupid."

"Don't you speak to me like that, young lady!" exclaimed Temeriel, "I'm... I'm your uncle!"

"What... what are they talking about?" coughed Dean, pushing himself to his feet. "What... do they mean... back on the job?" He paused. "And what the hell are _you_ talking about?" he added.

"Oh, you're as clueless as she is," snapped Baldilocks, still attempting to remove his arm from Jimi's grip, "What do you think the hex bag in the scooter was for?"

"To keep it running," answered Dean, bemused.

"Of course to keep it running!" Baldilocks yelled at him, "So _she_ doesn't go running to the nearest small engine specialist, and run into _him_! Let go, you damned animal,_ let go_! Oh, this jacket is ruined!"

'You've been... running interference with the Cupids' mission to get Syl and Phil together?" Dean didn't believe what he was hearing.

"Oh, give the Special Needs boy an elephant stamp!' Pimple Boy winced, still dabbing at his nose. "At this rate, he'll be toilet trained before he turns forty..."

"But... why?" asked Temeriel in a small voice. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Tem, they're demons," sighed Dean. "Demons do vicious, evil shit. Keeping apart two people who could be happy together is vicious, evil shit."

"Especially if those two people's descendents could do so much good for humanity," hissed Gym Sack Girl. "This job will carry a lot of kudos Downstairs. It will look great on our CVs, you might say. And we have no intention of letting you ruin it!"

"Are you telling me..." Dean looked from one demon to another, "Are you telling me that you are some sort of... _anti-Cupids_?" He looked stunned. Temeriel was speechless with horror. "There is a low-level tier of demons whose job it is to try to thwart the missions of Heaven's Cupids?"

"Oh, his brain's just on fire tonight," grumped Baldilocks, gloomily surveying the shredded remains of his suit. "If your dog pulls the arm off this meatsuit, I'm going to have to find another one. There won't be one in that bar dressed as well as this. It will be very inconvenient!"

"Do you have any idea how difficult it would be for our Father to tempt souls to the Pit if that sort of global harmony and well-being eventually breaks out?" demanded Pimple Boy. "Seriously, do you have any idea how many cross-roads demons, temptation demons, and other associated fiends would be out of work? It would be chaos!"

"Father predicts an utter disaster if Her Holiness Bernadette I makes it to the Vatican," scowled Baldilocks, "That sort of enlightened approach to organised religion and outreach to other faiths will be a catastrophe for Hell!"

"Just think of how recruitment will fall if people actually start to practise what their holy books preach!" shuddered Gym Sack Girl. "All that compassion, and tolerance, and disgustingly cheerful austerity! The nauseating stench of concern for others! It would make this planet intolerable!"

"Which is why it's our job to stop it," snarled Pimple Boy, smirking nastily, "And we will."

"No, I really don't think so," said Dean cockily, grinning, "Because unless I miss the count, the numbers are even now, and Tem here is an angel after all, and now he knows what you're doing, he will totally smite your sorry, interfering asses! Right, Tem?"

His grin wavered as he heard the sniffling behind him.

Temeriel was in tears, his face glistening wetly as it wobbled. "That's so mean," he said softly, "That's just so mean. To my charges... and to me. Family shouldn't fight." He turned to Dean. "I'm... I'm sorry," he sobbed, "They're my... my nephews. And niece. How could I possibly smite them?"

Pimple Boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, the only danger he poses to anyone is if he crash-lands on them," he sniggered, "I mean, really, taking a hippopotamus as a vessel? Is that even allowed?"

Temeriel swallowed his tears, and turned a stern expression on the demon. "Lucifer is my brother," he said, "And although we may have our... disagreements, I am your Uncle Temeriel. And you owe me that respect. At the very least, be civil."

"Kinda difficult, since I don't speak hippopotamus," replied Pimple Boy flippantly, "Or Huttese. Jabba."

Temeriel looked thoughtful, then called forth his notebook, and scanned the pages. He found what he was looking for, and his face took on an expression of displeasure. "That was another very unkind thing to say," he told the demon. "It was uncalled for."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Uncle Elvis," whined the demon, "Would you like me to help you float back off the sandbar, and back out to your pod?"

Temeriel's face took on an uncharacteristically dark expression. "Young man, I am warning you..."

"It's okay," the demon assured him, "I'll stick around, to make sure no nasty Japanese boats try to harpoon you..."

"Right, that is it!" snapped Temeriel, "You apologise for your rudeness right now, or I will be forced to smite you for your own good!'

"Oooooh, I'm shaking, I'm shaking," sneered the derogatory demon, "You're a Cupid, Uncle Blubber, and everybody knows that a Cupid can't smite its way out of a wet paper bag..."

With a determined look, Temeriel suddenly zapped right into the pimply demon's personal space.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" yelped the demon.

Temeriel sat down on a pile of crates, and pulled the bemused demon across his lap.

"This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you," he said sadly, "But failing to discipline you for your bad behaviour would be me failing you as a concerned uncle."

With a face that truly showed regret, he began to spank the demon.

"Er, Tem, we don't really have time for this," began Dean, eyeing the scene before him uneasily.

"There is always time to do what is best for family," Temeriel said firmly, as the demon squirmed and yelped across his lap. "You, young man, need to learn that there are consequences of your actions, and you have to take responsibility for them."

"Ow! Ow! Owwwwww!" wailed the demon, "He's smiting me! He's smiting meeeeeee!"

"Oh, stop your damned whining," muttered the older male demon, "At least he's not drawing blood. Just look at what this damned dog has done!"

"Tem," Dean tried again, "Has it occurred to you that punishing a demon for being, well, demonic, it's kind of, well... pointless?"

"You should never give up on family," Temeriel spoke firmly again, and went on spanking.

"I don't believe this!" the female demon shouted, turning on Dean with an enraged scowl, "Our cover's blown, and his arm is shredded, and he's not going to be able to sit down for a week, and this job was going to make my career – I was going to get an internship at the racks for this – and now it's going wrong and _this is all your fault, you interfering idiot!_" She bared her teeth, and stalked towards him. "I am going to punch your smirking face right through the back of your head!"

Demonic anger lent strength to her demonic punch, which sent Dean reeling. He stumbled backwards in the face of her rage, towards the dead end of the alley. The flask of holy water barely slowed her down; she snarled, and hit him again. Jimi was busy hanging onto the most senior demon, Temeriel was busy attempting to reform the spottiest demon, and the third one was apparently intent of killing him for sabotaging her career path, and she was so angry holy water hadn't worked, and he didn't even have any salt on him, so he did the only thing he could think of.

Dean called forth his bow.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

In the bar, Sam's phone buzzed.

"Dean," he said anxiously, "Temeriel said he thought something was wrong. Are you okay?"

"Uh," stuttered his big brother, a strange quaver in his voice, "It's gotten a bit... weird..."

"Weird?" asked Sam, "How weird?"

"Um, well, there are these demons," Dean went on, "And one of them is, uh..."

"Hang tight bro, I'm on my way," Sam told him, making to put his phone away until the desperate yelp from his brother stopped him.

"No! No! Stay there, Sam, don't move! Tem and I have them... er, distracted. While they're... distracted, I think we can complete the mission."

Sam was completely confused. "Look, if you're out there, you can't complete the mission in here," he reasoned.

"I have a plan," Dean said, in that strangely distracted voice, "But I don't have time to explain the details – aaaaaAAAAAAAaaaah – you have to stay in the bar, and just, just follow my lead, okay?"

"Er, okay," Sam agreed. "Dean, are you all right?"

"Never better, Sammy, never better," warbled Dean, "So, if this works, just... follow through, okay?"

"Dean," asked Sam warily, "Dean, what are you planning?"

"Facilitate business process improvement within parameters which address the need for pinpointing the values that individuals add to key client processes," intoned Dean.

"What?"

"Focus on core competencies to trade-off against the undoubted benefits of meeting trans-national and trans-industrial competition, ooooo OOOOOO er," Dean went on, sounding slightly desperate.

"Dean, are you feeling all right?"

"Workshopping challenges in the context of keeping the organisation aligned with market spaces," Dean let out a small yelp at the end of that sentence.

"Seriously, have you been hit in the head?"

"Reduce margin erosion bench-marking the visibility of key business metrics!" squeaked Dean.

"Because you sound like you're concussed - you're babbling..."

"I'm not babbling, Sam, I'm delegating!" Dean's voice rose to a squeal on the last word. "Aaaaargh heregrabthis and take up your postasActingActingCupid..."

"Huh?" Sam shot his phone a bewildered look, then did a double-take at the gilded bow and quiver hanging in the air in front of him. "Dean, is that what I think it is...?"

"Just grab it Sammy andwelcometoTeamCupid _yeeeeeeep_!"

In confusion, Sam reached out to grasp the bow bobbing gently in the air in front of him.

"I really hope nobody else can see that," he griped into the phone, "Dean, you're going to have to tell me what the hell is happening, bro, or..."

There was a very small hiccup in the fabric of the space-time continuum.

Sam shivered at the sudden draft, glanced downwards, and groaned.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Glazed Doughnuts being fed to you by Your Winchester Of Choice in the back of the Impala Of Life!<p> 


	13. Chapter 13

They blew up Bobby's house? Srsly? Season 7 blew up_ Bobby's house_?

It's official, then. The Jimiverse is officially completely AU. AND I will _never_ speak to that Gamble woman again!

Clearly, something more civilised happened in the Jimiverse at the end of Season 6. Maybe Cas began to have distressing gastrointestinal symptoms, and they had to re-open the portal to Purgatory in a motel toilet, and he was really really sick, and they threw Crowley in for good measure (I don't like Crowley. Maybe because he's so smarmy. Maybe because he sounds so damned English) then Sam and Dean and Bobby had to look after him and he felt like a complete fool, and was very ashamed, and apologised profusely, and went back to Heaven to sort out the ruckus and became Acting Manager Just Until Father Gets Back (for his sins) and although he really didn't enjoy senior management he felt responsible so he did it to the best of his ability anyway, and that's why he was so good at it. Plus, he had Danael to run all the Admin for him. That's probably why he doesn't let the other angels say mean things about her, because he is so aware that his own conduct has been less than exemplary in the past.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

"I am totally going to kill you for this!" Sam hissed into his phone, scooting back into the shadows even though he knew he was invisible to the people around him.

"Aieeeeeee!" went Dean on the other end of the line.

"You might at least have delegated me the pants as well!" Sam snarled.

"Er, sorry, Sammy, pants are a bit busy right now..." gibbered Dean. "Yes, pants are otherwise engaged, busy busy pants, no rest for the pants..."

Sam stared at his phone. "Dean," he said, "What the fuck is going on?"

"Just do it, Sam!" implored Dean, "Just get the job done... Aaaaargh!"

"This better work," Sam muttered to himself, putting down the phone and picking up the bow. Dean was right, it looked like a prop from a school play. It certainly looked like a toy in his hands. He had no idea why his brother sounded so strange, but Dean seemed to think that whatever he was doing would make it possible to get Cupid arrows into the vet and the mechanic, so, trying to ignore the persistent draft, he nocked an arrow, drew a bead, and fired...

The arrow left a trail of tinkly gold sparkles in the air as it shot across the bar, and buried itself in Sylvia's arm, fading from view almost as soon as it hit.

She sat up, blinked a couple of times, then went back to her drink.

Encouraged, Sam nocked and drew another arrow, aimed it at Phil the mechanic, and left fly.

The arrow hit him between the shoulder blades, fading away as the little sparkling gold trail dissolved. He paused in the act of racking the pool balls, but then continued.

Sam picked up his phone. "Er, I think it might've worked, bro," he said to Dean, "Whatever you're doing, it, uh, appears to have worked."

There was a series of very strange noises from the phone.

"Um Dean?" asked Sam anxiously, "What exactly_ are _you doing?"

"Funkytown! Funkytown!" his big brother squealed.

Swearing under his breath, Sam stomped his way bad-temperedly out of the bar. He was sure that the draft was going to be worse outside.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean was not a man who was easily fazed. Given the life he'd led as a Hunter, it seemed obvious that not being easily fazed would be a given.

He had tracked, fought, faced down and ganked creatures which, had he known about them, would have sent H.P. Lovecraft into an episode of depression about his own lack of imagination before he turned instead to writing children's books. 'Look look look! See Cthulu. See Hastur. Run, Yog Sothoth, run! Oh oh oh. The Elder Gods will be mad.'

He had survived Hell. With his brother, he had saved the world. He had confronted Lucifer, no less, and not backed down.

He had stood unmoved as Robert S. Singer, quite possibly the most knowledgeable man in the Northern Hemisphere on matters supernatural, called him 'idjit' with extreme prejudice. He had been yelled at by Ronnie Shepherd, the world's crankiest werewolf, and not batted an eyelid. He had been on the receiving end of Sam's Bitchfaces for twenty years, and he scoffed, nay, he laughed, and he _smirked_ infuriatingly, in the face of them. Ha ha. Just like that.

Nope, Dean was most definitely not easily fazed. The original Joe Cool.

Once, during a Hunt in Hollywood, through a series of extraordinary circumstances, he had found himself trapped in a lift with Angelina Jolie.

"You are an extremely attractive man, Mr Winchester," Ms Jolie has purred, "To pass the time while we are stuck in this lift, I would like to perform oral sex on you."

Dean had considered that, and replied,

"You are an extremely attractive woman, Ms Jolie – but what's in it for me?"

_That's_ how unfazeable Dean was.

But even Dean had his limits.

"Yeeeeeep!" he went again.

The door of the bar opened, and he saw his very annoyed, and very naked, little brother stand in the middle of the lot.

"Dean!" Sam called, "Dean! Where the hell are you?"

"We're here Sammyyyeeeeeeee!" came the reply from the alley beside the bar, rising to a note Sam hadn't heard in Dean's voice since before it broke.

"Did you say there were demons?" asked Sam, making his way towards his brother, "I'm sure I heard you say there were... oh."

Sam was also not easily fazed. But he was more easily fazed than Dean. And Dean was definitely fazed.

So it was not surprising that, when he saw his brother standing in his Cupid pants, with the three demons clustered around him on their knees, communing with his pants, Sam was most definitely fazed.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Myfanwy Jones had loved her husband. He'd come from a family of a much higher social stratum that her own. They had looked down on her, and threatened to disown him if he married her. He'd thumbed his nose at them, saying he'd rather be dirt poor with the love of his life than live in luxury with such shallow relatives. After his diagnosis at age thirty, it had seemed like an act of equal love to dig out one of her grandmother's forbidden books, and learn how to make a deal to save him.

Seth Barton had been a doting husband, then a doting father, after his beloved wife had died delivering their first and only child, a sickly girl who failed to thrive. "Leave her here and go home," had been the hospital's advice. Selling his soul to see his little girl grow into a happy, healthy child with a future had been something he'd done without a second thought.

Cameron MacKenzie had watched the family home burn to the ground with his two beloved younger siblings inside it. A bookish teenager with decidedly eclectic reading habits, he had recalled something from a Latin text, and had been completely satisfied with his deal when, twenty-four hours later, his brother and sister were rescued from the cellar beneath the fallen timbers in what was hailed as a miracle.

Sadly, however, the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions. Maybe they didn't deserve Hell, and maybe they didn't deserve demonhood, but that's what they got. After the horrors of the Pit, finally attaining the perversion of their souls into children of Lucifer was, bluntly, something of a relief. Even the most junior and lowly anti-Cupid has a less distressing existence than one of the Damned souls condemned to the racks.

And yet, the moment Dean manifested in his Cupidity, with his angelic pants representing everything that was good, and kind, and wonderful, and benevolent, and _right_, the depth of their purity and virtue stirred something even in the stained, twisted and blackened souls that were the three young demons.

Myfanwy immediately ceased her attempts to punch Dean's face right off, and stared at his plumage. "Oh," she said in a small voice, "Oh..." The hand that had been an upraised fist unclenched, and reached out tentatively. "They are... beautiful..."

Cameron pushed himself up from the cherub's lap, swallowing his sniffles, and stared wistfully at Dean's heavenly plumage. "Uncle Temeriel," he began hesitantly, "Can I... can I... can I look at that man's feathers?"

"Will you do it politely?" prompted Temeriel. The demon nodded earnestly.

"They're the colour of my daughter's eyes," sighed Seth, a gentle smile on his face, "She had the most amazing eyes, right from when she was born. They were grey, the colour of the ocean in winter. The most lovely, deep colour..." He stroked Jimi's ears. "Let go, fella," he implored, "I just want to look at that colour, one more time..."

Dean watched in bemusement as the three demons dropped to their knees around him, and began to stroke his pants.

"They're so soft, Uncle Temeriel," said Cameron in wonder, "They're like day-old chickens. Or little baby rabbit kittens."

"Oh, the way the move, so beautiful, so graceful, like my little Sophie," sighed Seth.

"They are truly lovely," smiled Myfanwy, rubbing her cheek gently against Dean's thigh, "They are truly the most lovely thing I have seen in such a long time..."

"Oooo OOOO er aaaaaargh!" went Dean, his eyes bugging. "Bad touch! Bad touch!" His attempts to slap their hands away were completely ineffectual. His pants rustled compassionately as the demons oohed and ahhed over them.

"Oh, well done, Dean!" declared Temeriel, smiling widely, "You've distracted them completely!" He called forth his own bow. "Shall I just head back into the bar, and..."

"Don't you dare leave me here like this!" squeaked Dean in horror. "AaaaaaaaAAAAAArgh! Ooooh, tickles! Tem, do something!"

Temeriel smiled indulgently at the infatuated demons. "Maybe it's working because these ones are so young," he sighed happily, "Maybe, given enough time, there is hope for them all. Even Lucifer."

"Tem, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I'm being groped by demons here!" yelped Dean. "AAAAAARGH mind the merchandise you creepy bitch!"

"Never give up on family..." sighed Temeriel to himself, placing an avuncular hand on the younger male demon's shoulder.

"OhGodohGodohGodohGod," squeaked Dean, sticking out his hand and thinking _phone_ very hard. A desperate situation called for a desperate plan; he figured he had nothing to lose.

He called Sam...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

...who later stood, just as fazed as his brother, and possibly a little envious, watching the pantly plumage patting.

"Oh. Er. Oh," stuttered Sam, taking in the scene before him. "Dude, are they... petting your pants?" His face looked hurt.

"Saaaaaaam!" shrieked Dean, "Do somethiiiiing!"

"Er, right. Right." Squaring his shoulders, Sam marched into the alley. He grabbed hold of the female demon. "Come on, you," he growled, "Stop petting the pants!"

"Nooooooo!" she wailed pitifully, wrapping her arms around Dean's leg, "They're beautiful!" It was like trying to prise a limpet off a sea cliff.

"Hey, come on, knock it off," Sam laid hands on the younger male demon.

"Uncle Teeeeem!" howled the spotty young demon, "Don't let him take them awaaaay! Pleeeeease!"

Sam tried valiantly to remove the demons from his brother, but they hung on tightly, tearfully, and refused to let go.

"Saaaaaaaaam!" Dean howled along with the distressed demons, "Get them off meeeeeee!"

"Right. Right," he replied, "Uh, Look, you demons, that's enough. I demand that you stop petting my brother's pants right now. I'm the only one who gets to pet his pants, all right? Not demons."

They ignored him.

"All right, you leave me no choice," Sam frowned, finding that he really was getting peeved at the thought of those demons pawing at Dean's pure and virtuous pants, "I tried to warn you... Exorcisamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."

The demons remained blissfully unaware of the exorcism until the very end, when the columns of howling black smoke shot out of the mouths of the two male meatsuits. The female, however, kept blissfully stroking Dean's feathers.

"Um, you're supposed to leave now," Sam told her pointedly and a little peevishly when he'd finished the Latin recitation. "Did you even listen to me, you rude bitch?"

"Just five more minutes," she sighed contentedly, hugging Dean's leg.

"_Saaaaaaaaaam!_" shrieked Dean.

"Stop doing that!" Sam snapped at the demon, who gave him a hurt look.

In a combination of desperation and pique, Sam nocked an arrow and fired it at her...

The golden arrow left a shimmering trail in its wake, hit her in the shoulder, and disappeared.

The demon sat back, blinked, and looked around, apparently bemused.

"Um," said Sam.

"Er, Sam," began Temeriel nervously, "You have to fire the second arrow."

Sam looked around. "At what?" he asked.

"At anything, bro!" Dean answered. "What if it makes her trail around after you the way Cas stalked me?" He looked at his brother's bare legs. "And you don't have any pants for her to stroke..."

At the end of the alley, there was a small movement under a pile of trash. Sam caught it out of the corner of his eye. He nocked an arrow, and fired at it.

The arrow disappeared. The pile of trash let out a small 'meow'.

The female demon smiled, and went skipping to the end of the alley. "Puss! Puss! Here, kitty kitty kitty!" she called.

A scrawny alley cat shot out of the pile of trash and disappeared into the night. The demon set of in hot pursuit.

"Okaaaaay," Dean breathed out, "Demons dealt with. Unconventional, but it seems to have worked. What will happen to her, Tem?"

"I'm not sure, exactly," Temeriel admitted, "We don't fire arrows at demons. And she was so very young. If she could be affected by your pants, maybe she could be affected by the arrow."

"Well, she certainly seems to have forgotten all about her mission to stop our mission... Sam!" Dean broke off and barked at his brother. "Stop it!"

"But they're agitated!" protested Sam, stroking Dean's rustling pants gently, "Look! Those demons must've upset them! It's okay, pants, you marvellous garment, calm down now..."

"Dude, petting the pants is creepy enough, but you're buck naked!" yelped Dean. "There is so much wrong with that!"

"They were right, you know," sighed Sam, getting in a surreptitious last pat, "They really are just the most beautiful things. They make me want to be a better person."

"Of all the things I've had to deal in my life, my bareass baby bro tenderly caressing my thighs could possibly be the most traumatic thing I've ever, ever had to endure," muttered Dean, "And that includes time spent in Hell. Gimme back that bow, and deCupidify right this fucking instant!"

Dean snatched the bow away from Sam, and they both deCupidified.

"So, did you manage to fire arrows at Syl and Phil?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied, "Both arrows did that sparkly trail through the air thing, hit them, and kind of disappeared."

"That sounds like it worked!" Temeriel clapped his hands happily, "Oh, well done, Sam! And, of course, well done Dean," he added generously, "Your diversionary tactic was a master stroke, and distracted them completely."

"Yeah, well, I can't help it if I'm even more awesome undressed," Dean said with a smirk as Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's go see what's happening inside."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

There had been some problem with the power in the bar – the lights dipped and zapped, and a couple of globes blew out before the current stabilised again. In that brief episode of unexpected darkness, a man on his way to the bar accidentally bumped into a woman who'd just ordered another drink.

She squeaked in surprise as the drink spilled down the front of her sweater.

When the lights came up again, the man apologised profusely – he was a decent guy, and pulled out a handkerchief to offer her, looked at the grease on it, then asked the barman for a dish cloth instead. I really am so sorry, he repeated.

It's okay, she told him, dabbing at her sweater, I got peed on by an incontinent rabbit, and I think it soaked through my gown, so I'll have to wash it anyway.

Please let me buy you another drink, said the man, what exactly was it?

A Cupid's Diaper Rash, she answered with a smile. Don't be put off by the colour, they're great.

He thought she had a nice smile, so he smiled back. Okay, I will, he said, ordering the drinks. Of course, now I'm really curious as to how you got peed on by an incontinent rabbit...

They sat and talked, and she mentioned Giovanni her scooter. Is he a Classic? the guy asked. I've worked on a lot of those. I really don't know, she admitted sheepishly, I've been thinking I really should get to know more about him. He's been such a faithful old thing, never given me any trouble...

They discovered their mutual interest in Vespa scooters, dogs, and complete disdain for Facebook. What's the point of collecting 'friends' you don't even know? she said. If I want to talk to somebody, I'll pick up the phone, or arrange to meet them, he said. That's what you do with friends. She totally agreed.

After she said goodbye and left, she returned five minutes later, somewhat distressed. I really hate to ask this, she said, but Giovanni won't start.

He followed her outside, and quickly ascertained that Giovanni had some serious mechanical problems. Look here, he pointed out, the fuel line is just about perished, and that's the least of his worries.

She looked so sad, he offered to put Giovanni in his pick-up, and take it to the workshop. I can have a look at him tomorrow, he offered, and let you know the extent of the damage. Then you can decide what you want to do. We have a scooter you can take. Until you make a decision on your Vespa.

Can he be repaired? she asked anxiously.

I think so, he replied, but it would be best done properly. Giovanni is a Classic. He'd be an awesome restoration, if you were interested.

You know, I think I might be, she smiled.

They got into the truck, and took Giovanni the Vespa, now minus the hex bag, to the workshop.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Luridly Coloured Drinks Bought For You By Decent Guys in the Bar Of Life!<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The Winchesters and Temeriel watched the pick-up, with Giovanni the elderly scooter in the bed, head out of the lot.

"So, do we have mission accomplished?" asked Dean.

Temeriel stared hard after the truck, and sighed. "Mission accomplished," he confirmed. "Sylvia is a bit worried about her scooter right now, but they're finding out that they enjoy each other's company. Oh, it's always so wonderful to see a mission completed!"

"We should celebrate, then," declared Dean, "I have a sudden strange urge to try one of those red drinks that Dr Samgrabber was having. Well, she's Dr Philgrabber now," he amended with a grin.

"Oh no, we can't celebrate, not yet," Temeriel told him seriously. "We have to prepare our reports, and submit them to Danael. Then we're finished. She likes to get the reports as quickly as possible. So she can correct them, and get the final versions filed."

"What?" demanded Dean. "You gotta be shitting me."

"Figure of speech, Tem," said Sam hurriedly, at the bewildered look on the cherub's face. "Maybe you'd better just, you know, knock out a quick p-mail, for the, uh, Heavenly Archives," Sam suggested, as Temeriel wrote in his notebook.

"I told Cas that I do NOT do paperwork," Dean growled, "Paperwork is for people who don't have actual useful jobs to do. It's for people who get paid to do it. I am not getting paid enough to do paperwork, Sam."

"Look, it won't take you long, and it'll finish this job off properly," Sam reasoned. "And it'll keep Danael happy. She sounds like an angel you don't want to piss off."

"She does take the administration side of things very seriously," nodded Temeriel. "She can become quite... stern if we are tardy with our reports."

"Screw the Archives, screw reports, screw paperwork, and screw Danael," grumped Dean, "Where's the form for me to fill out to get trauma counselling after spending a week wearing feather pants, huh? Feather pants, that flew, with me in them! Feather pants, that my little brother, and a certain Angel of the Lord, couldn't stop groping! Feather pants, that got me groped by demons! I've spent a week being traumatised to get a job done for them, and on top of it all, now they want a _report_? A she-demon grabbed my junk, Sam! Where's the paperwork for _that_, huh?"

"Okay, okay," Sam placated, hearing the shrillness in his brother's voice, "I'm just saying that it might be a good idea to do something about it."

"The only idea I have right now is trying one of those drinks," Dean glowered. "You two frustrated secretaries my join me, or not."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Temeriel gratefully accepted Sam's offer to help him with his report, while Dean wandered off to find himself another bar. He didn't want to go back into the bar where Syl met Phil, because he didn't want anybody to think to themselves "Look, there's that asshole who was in here earlier this week, you know, the one that was two-timing these two other guys, what a bastard..."

He approached the bar, winked at the cute bartender, and ordered a beer.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception," she told him with a smile.

Dean blinked. "Er, excuse me?" he said, confused.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception," she repeated, the smile wavering.

"Am I going to get that beer?" he asked.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception!" she told him, her face clouding.

Dean groaned. "Tell you what, don't worry about it," he told her, "I'll get something on the way back."

Some guy who'd had too much to drink bumped into him as he left. "Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception," he slurred, giving Dean a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Yeah, you too, buddy," grimaced Dean.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

He arrived back at their motel room, with a face like a thunder cloud. He had managed to buy a bottle of Jack and some snacks, but only by dealing with a cashier who would say nothing but "Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception."

"You're back early," noted Sam, as Temeriel carefully wrote his next sentence, "Didn't find a bar you liked? What, it's Ladies' Night, and the strippers were male?"

"Oh, thank fuck for that," sighed Dean, dropping heavily onto his bed.

Sam looked confused. "Thank fuck for male strippers?" he sounded dubious.

"No," groaned Dean, "Thank fuck you're not telling me to submit my mission report to Reception."

"I have already told you to submit your mission report to Reception," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, but now, everybody is telling me!" exclaimed Dean. "The bartender. The drunk guy who bumped into me. The cashier. The homeless guy I walked past. The weirdo on the corner telling everyone that the end is nigh. A traffic cop. Everybody out there is telling me to submit my mission report!"

"Well, perhaps you should," suggested Sam, peering over Temeriel's shoulder, "Just something quick."

"I'm not doing a report," growled Dean, fishing for the remote, and turning on the TV. "Oh, yeah," he grinned, opening a packet of Cheetos, "Dr Sexy is on!"

"Dean, we're trying to do some work here," Sam complained.

"Shhhhh can't talk watching Dr Sexy," Dean told him.

On the screen, a bleeding patient on a gurney was rushed into A & E.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception!" barked a paramedic.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception?" asked a nurse.

"Dean Winchester, submit your mission report to Reception," confirmed the paramedic.

"Dean Winchester?" enquired the resident, picking up an alarmingly enormous syringe.

"Submit your mission report," snapped the nurse, hanging up an I.V. bag.

"TO RECEPTIOOOOOON!" screamed the patient, writhing in pain.

Dr Sexy strode into the chaos. The entire cast sighed in relief.

"Dean Winchester, submit your report to Reception," he intoned in a cool, authoritative voice, pointing a scalpel at camera. "Stat!"

"AAAAAAAARGH!" yelled Dean, throwing a handful of Cheetos at the screen. Jimi happily began to snuffle them up.

"Dean, keep it down," said Sam, "Tem is trying to do his report, even if you don't want to do yours. I think maybe you should write 'Dean then suggested that a more powerful weapon would be necessary', Tem. It's unlikely that Danael has seen 'Jaws', so that's a reference that she won't understand..."

Nothing worked. He grabbed the laptop, but every link he clicked led to a flashing banner, demanding that he submit his mission report. The car magazine he'd been perusing had had all the text replaced with the same instruction.

The radio was the final insult. He found a heavy rock station, and slumped heavily against the headboard, letting the swelling strains of the intro to 'Fade To Black' wash over him.

_Dean Winchester, you can't thwart  
><em>_The requirement to report  
><em>_On the job complete tonight –  
><em>_Sit down now, and start to write,_

_You may send it as a prayer,  
><em>_Don't ignore me, boy, I swear,  
><em>_All reports must be completed.  
><em>_Do not make this be repeated..._

"Aaaaargh!" yodelled Dean in outrage, turning off the radio. Having James Hetfield mournfully exhort him to do his paperwork really was the last straw.

By the time Temeriel had laboriously finished his report, hugged them both goodbye and departed, the bottle of Jack was three quarters gone, and Dean was looking thoughtful.

"It's late, bro, I'm going to bed," yawned Sam, heading for the bathroom. "What about you?"

"Yeah, right behind you," humphed Dean.

"You really probably should do something about a report," Sam suggested.

"You are probably right," nodded Dean. "I'll take care of it while you're in the shower."

As soon as he heard the water running, Dean put down his bottle, knelt beside his bed, put his hands together and shut his eyes to send his report.

"Now I lay me down tonight,  
>I want to just turn out the light,<br>And go to sleep, in dreams cavort,  
>But nooooo, you want some damned report.<p>

I've spent a week as Acting Cupid,  
>Feeling really fucking stupid,<br>Walking round in feathered pants  
>That put my brother in a trance<p>

And made him want to pet my rear –  
>Do you have <em>any<em> damned idea  
>How frigging <em>weird <em>a man's life gets  
>When brother grabs his shorts – and <em>pets?<em>

It would've helped if from the start  
>I'd known that demons played a part,<br>Those evil, anti-Cupid jerks  
>Who threw a spanner in the works.<p>

But no-one thought to check that first?  
>Your planning has to be the worst.<br>Do you plan missions by committee?  
>Because your intel's really shitty.<p>

So, here's what happened, how it went:  
>Sam and I by Cas were sent<br>To help out poor Temeriel  
>Because his mission went to hell.<p>

We found the girl and found the guy,  
>I let my Cupid's arrows fly,<br>They didn't work; but one hit Cas,  
>Which was a real pain in the ass,<p>

He showered me with _agape_.  
>I had to make like I was gay.<br>We had a different plan to try.  
>I had to use my pants to fly.<p>

I fell out of the air, and then  
>My brother stroked my pants. <em>Again.<br>_We found the demons out, by chance,  
>And then guess what? They stroked my pants!<p>

So that's the job, no more for me,  
>No more Acting Cupidity,<br>I've done enough of cherub shit,  
>So count me out. I fucking quit.<p>

Sure, cover this in damned red ink,  
>But don't you dare to damn well think<br>I'll write it out for you again –  
>I hope you break your frigging pen,<p>

So if you like reports, that's fine,  
>But paperwork's no love of mine,<br>To re-write this I will decline,  
>So shove it where the sun don't shine.<p>

And if tonight my last I groan,  
>Leave James Hetfield the fuck alone.<p>

A-frigging-men."

"All done?" asked Sam, emerging from the bathroom.

"All done," smiled Dean, heading in after him.

"You'd better have done a decent job of it," Sam warned him, "Or she'll just send it back."

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean reassured him, "I'm pretty sure that Danael will never want to look at another report from me again."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_flap-flap_

"Hello, Sam."

"Yikes!" Sam jumped like he'd been stung when Castiel appeared far too close for comfort. Then he gasped for air as Temeriel gave him a cheerful hug hello. "Er, hi, guys," he coughed, getting his breath back. "Um, how did the report go, Tem?"

"Look at this!" the cherub happily waved a piece of parchment. There was hardly any red ink on it at all. "She wrote, 'Much improved, Temeriel. A very good effort' on it!" The Cupid was beside himself with joy. "You know," he went on shyly, "I think she almost smiled when I hugged her."

"That's great, Tem," smiled Sam.

"Temeriel wanted to say a final goodbye," intoned Castiel. "I am here to thank you both for your efforts, and to relieve Dean of his temporary Cupid duties. However, I see that Dean is not here."

"He went off to his Den Of Iniquity," Sam told the angels. "He's found some place he's been going and playing poker, and he's doing really well. He's several thousand up. He said he'd be back later."

"Now that the mission is completed, it would be appropriate for him to relinquish his Cupidity," Castiel stated. "Do you know where he is?"

"You know, I have been wondering where he's been going," Sam admitted, "But he just gives me that great big shit-eating grin, and tells me that I wouldn't approve." He looked thoughtfully at Castiel. "Can you find him?"

"Your brother, no," Castiel answered, "But I can locate his car."

"Why don't we go find him, then," suggested Sam, anticipating having his curiosity satisfied. "You can de-Cupid him, and I can, er, project disapproval."

"Very well," agreed Castiel.

The world lurched sideways...

_flap-flap_

"Here is Dean's car," Castiel pointed to the Impala, where it sat in a parking lot. "We are several miles from your motel."

"It looks like a, a club of some sort," mused Sam, taking in the large modern brick building and the high walls. "What is it? It can't be a health club. Dean wouldn't go near anything with the word 'health' in the title..."

Castiel peered hard at the building. "It is a... resort," he announced finally.

"Can you get us in?" asked Sam, taking in the security at the front of the building, "It looks pretty well, er, regulated."

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "I can go and find your brother. Are you certain you wish to accompany me?"

"Er, yeah, I'm sure," Sam told him, thinking it was a strange question, "Truth be told, I'm kind of curious to see what he's been getting up to."

"Very well," Castiel intoned again.

The world lurched sideways once more...

The first thing Sam noticed, was that there was a draft.

The second thing Sam noticed, was that he was naked again.

The third thing he noticed, was that Castiel was also naked.

The fourth thing Sam noticed, was that everybody else was naked as well.

The large mural reading 'Welcome to Greenfields Naturist Retreat' was a bit further down the list.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Beulah Worthington, in her eighties, retired school librarian, was tending her roses when it happened.

"God has a purpose for you, Bellie," her grandmother had told her when she was a little girl. Beulah hadn't taken her literally, but now, it seemed that Granma Nelly might actually have been right. She had always been a devout woman, although through her career there had been some children she had just wanted to tan the hide off, despite the Bible's exhortation to love your enemies...

It didn't ruffle her in the least. Having spent sixty years in the school system, she had seen and heard it all. Being approached by an Angel of the Lord asking to borrow her body as a vessel barely registered on her My-Goodness-Me-Ometer.

Of course, she said yes immediately, but when the angel told her why she was needed as a vessel, she couldn't help the little smile that crept onto her face.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Naked poker?" demanded Sam, when they were back on the road again, headed for the next job, wherever it turned out to be. "You went to a naturist retreat, to play naked poker?"

"Nude poker, Sam, it was nude poker," Dean corrected him. "They don't use the word 'naked'. It has unwanted connotations. Like Ronnie says. She's never naked – sometimes, she's just undressed. I was just undressed, Sam."

"You were playing nude poker with nude people! In the nude!" accused Sam.

"Well, of _course_ I was playing nude poker with nude people in the nude," replied Dean, "It was a nudist facility." He gave his little brother a pitying gaze. "You really do need to loosen up about it, bro," he went on, "It's not healthy to be so uptight. You should've gone for a swim, sat in the jacuzzi, gotten a massage or something, while you were there..."

"I didn't know I was going be nude!" protested Sam, his face flushing, "I didn't know that everybody was going to be nude! Cas didn't tell me it was a nudist retreat!"

"I don't know what you were so worried about," Dean went on airily, "It was all totally non-sexual, as you saw. Just people who are really comfortable in their own skins. Did you see how happy Temeriel was when he made himself visible? He was the star of the volleyball court! He's probably still there. They'll certainly have trouble prising him away from the desserts buffet."

"Oh, God, please, pass me the mind bleach," groaned Sam.

"It's just human bodies, Sam," Dean said, "The human body is a beautiful, natural thing, designed, incidentally, for beautiful, natural acts..."

"You were using your Cupidity to cheat!" Sam accused his brother, "You sought out a naked poker game so you could be visible with your Cupidity, and cheat!"

"Well, I didn't need to use it. Much," Dean defended himself. "I might've used my Cupidly talent to peek into the very outermost thoughts of a player from time to time, but mostly I just relied on my awesome poker talents and people skills..."

"Naked people skills," humphed Sam.

"Nude people skills," Dean reminded him. "They were actually harder to read, because they were all such relaxed, unconcerned individuals."

"Using your Acting Cupidness to cheat at nude poker was wrong," Sam insisted. "Cas didn't approve of what you were doing."

"I'm just glad that his infatuation has dissolved along with my Acting Cupidity," Dean said, " And I consider my hard-earned winnings payment for the extremely trying week I had as an Acting Cupid. I'll never recover from you and the pants thing, you know. I'm scarred for life. I can feel one eye start to twitch every time I see a bird. Feathers. If this job has ruined show girls for me, I will be very, very unhappy."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often).

"Hey, we're rich, bro! For us, anyway," grinned Dean, with his most winning smile, "I can keep you in lettuce and yoghurt and scrambled egg whites for weeks!"

"Be still my beating tastebuds," muttered Sam.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Another motel room with décor of questionable taste, in Bumfuck, Somestate...

Sam tapped at his laptop, frowning thoughtfully, while Dean ate Doritos, and watched 'Dr Sexy MD' on the TV.

They were both so engrossed in what they were doing that they barely noticed the faint _flap-flap_ sound...

"Hey, Cas, personal spa... oh." The confusion in Dean's voice as he automatically started to upbraid Castiel for standing too close made Sam look up.

It was not Castiel.

An elderly lady, in her eighties at least, with grey hair, wrinkled hands, and piercingly intelligent blue eyes stood, ramrod straight, staring hard at both of them.

"Er," stammered Sam, "Can we... help you?"

The weathered old face broke into a smile.

"Hello, Samuel," she said gently.

"Uh, friend of yours, Sammy?" asked Dean in bemusement.

A look of recognition dawned on Sam's face. "Miss Worthington?" he asked.

She smiled at him again. "I wondered if you would remember," she told him, "You were the smart one. Such an intelligent boy. Such a good student. Unlike... your brother..." she turned a stern face to Dean.

"Never picked you as the toy boy type, Sammy," grinned Dean.

"Dean, this is Miss Worthington. You remember," prompted Sam, "High school. Oregon. We were there for a couple of months. Miss Worthington was the senior librarian. She ran the book club. And supervised the debating club."

"And you were my star student, for a little while," the old woman recalled fondly. "I'm not surprised that you don't remember, Dean," she went on primly, "You spent hardly any time in the library. And when you were there, you were not interested in the books, unless it was to write or illustrate obscenities in the Latin dictionaries..."

"They were improved for having some pictures added," Dean said airily, "Latin can be such a boring topic. Put in a picture of a _mentula,_ or a _podex_, or a steaming heap of _stercus_, the visual association helps students learn vocabulary."

"You _drew_ on the _reference books_?" Sam asked, his face a perfect picture of horror, as if he'd just found out that his brother had been decapitating kittens for fun. "That's, that's... Dean, drawing on books is all kinds of... wrong!"

"If only that had been all he did in the reference stacks," sniffed Miss Worthington. "At least he remained clothed whilst perpertrating vandalism. Which is more than I can say for his... encounters with Cindy Evans, and Jennifer Watson, and those other little chippies on the cheerleading team ..."

"Well, it was nice and quiet up there," Dean explained to Sam's horrified expression, "Nobody ever went up to the reference stacks."

"I went up to the reference stacks!" spluttered Sam, "What if I'd seen you? Oh, I'd have been scarred for life..."

"You'd have learned something, Sammy," grinned Dean. "You too, Miss W.," he added cockily.

Sam eyed the elderly woman uneasily. "Dean," he ventured, "This isn't exactly Miss Worthington. Not entirely."

"Not entirely," confirmed the old woman, "But bear in mind, a vessel must agree to this. Beulah Worthington is a devout woman. She graciously and readily agreed to my request. For some reason, I get the feeling that she was looking forward to this meeting."

"So, who's that in there in the librarian suit?" asked Dean, popping another handful of corn chips into his mouth.

When she spoke, it was in a strong voice that was totally incongruous with the woman's appearance.

"My name is Danael. I am an Angel of the Lord, a Servant of Heaven," she said sternly.

A corn chip fell from Dean's mouth.

"Er," he said, smiling weakly. "Um... hi."

"So, er, hello, Danael," started Sam, "It's, er, nice to meet you, finally. What can we, uh, do for you?"

"I am here about... this," the angel's tone dripped with distaste as she called forth a piece of parchment, and handed it to Sam. "It is Dean's... mission report."

Sam's eyes bugged as he read the transcript of the p-mail his brother had sent to Danael. He sat down heavily on his bed.

"You..." he gaped in horror at his brother, "You... _this _was your report?"

"Well, you kept pestering me about it," Dean replied defensively. "And so did she," he added sullenly.

"I am here to seek redress for that," growled Danael, her vessel's eyes flashing.

"Er, yeah, I'll make sure he rewrites it," said Sam rapidly, "And, and, cleans it up, and, and, er, maybe he should just start again..."

"I do not believe Dean is interested in re-writing his report," suggested the angel evenly.

"You got that right," Dean growled. "Look, I did the job your guys couldn't, happy ending, mission complete. I don't get paid enough to do paperwork as well. Get some Heavenly pen-pusher to translated it for you."

"Dean, making an angel angry, not a smart move," Sam grinned desperately.

"He has already done that," Danael announced. Her right arm twitched, and Sam felt a stab of alarm as he saw a flash of silver drop into her hand.

It was thin, and looked laughably small, but he knew that looks were deceiving where the Heavenly weapons wielded by the Host were concerned.

Danael had called forth her ruler.

"You, Dean Winchester, are a rude and uncouth individual," she told Dean, "And I will teach you to mind your manners when you present a document to be filed for eternity in the Heavenly Archive!"

As quickly as a striking snake, she grabbed Dean's arm, seated herself on his bed, and pulled him across her lap. Dean yipped in fright, but the angel had an iron grip.

"Sam!" he shrieked, "Saaaaam! Do something! She's going to smite meeeeee!"

"In this case, bro," sighed Sam, "I really don't think there's anything I can do about that." He sat down at the table, and began to translate Dean's 'report' into something approaching civilised language.

"Beulah Worthington says she wishes she could have done this twenty years ago and would like me to say, 'This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me'," the angel relayed, as she began to spank.

**THE END**

* * *

><p>Aaaaaaand another plot bunny bites the dust. For which I am terribly grateful. They are distracting little buggers. I don't know if Dean's pants ever got their own show. Maybe a remake of 'The Flying Nun'. Retitled 'The Flying Buns'. But I refuse to speak to that Gamble woman, after what happened to Bobby's house, so she can't have my idea, so nerny nerny ner. (Maybe this Christmas holidays, I will get around to procuring Season Six, and watching it, looking for the 'HuntSex' switch on the back of RoboSam.)

Anyway, that's it from me for the nonce, or until one of those furry, insistent little bastard plot bunnies bites me again. Should any fan art arise pertaining to this - or any other of my stories - I will of course have to update with a Community Service Announcement. And the promised scenelet, in which the reluctant subject has to sit for the portrait (could traumatise Dean all over again if it's of him and his flying pants - 'Great, that's great, now, just hover up there while I draw you'. 'AAAAAAAAAARGH!' 'Wonderful, now, keep petting, Sam, and big happy smile.' 'AAAAAAAARGH!').

Review make me pathetically happy. I fear that they also feed the plot bunnies - that's just a side effect I'll have to learn to live with. It's a vicious circle. I blame the Denizens.


	16. BONUS DELETED SCENE

...because I know what the Denizens want. And that they're depraved. Le sigh...

* * *

><p><strong>SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM THE END OF CHAPTER 15<strong>

*white van pulls up at Singer Salvage*

*knock knock knock*

**Bobby:** ? ? ?

*opens door. Group of ladeez in white coats stand on porch. They sing their jingle*

_Have your Winchesters been traumatised, their psyches knocked askance_  
><em>By nudity or crudity or flying angel pants?<em>  
><em>Call DDD&amp;SSS to help them both unstress<em>  
><em>We're mobile and we're local and our prices will impress<em>

**Bobby:** Oh, thank God you're here, those two idjits are driving me nuts

**Paralesky:** *waves clipboard authoritatively* Leave it with us, Mr Singer, we are professionals.

*they hustle into the house*

_downstairs_

**Dean:** I just feel completely bewildered, and messed up. *sniff*

**Bartlebead:** *pushes tissues towards Dean* There there, we are here to help. Lie down on the couch, and tell us all about it.

**aeicha:** *nods vigorously* We are here to help you. *pats sofa invitingly*

**Dean:** I had to wear these terrible pants! And my brother kept stroking them! And an angel spanked me! It huuuuuuurt! *sniff sniff*

**knivespast:** You poor thing. *pats Dean's hand reassuringly* You clearly need some sort of therapy for mental and physical trauma.

**Katiki:** Since you have been traumatised by pants, it would be very therapeutic for you to take them off. Their very presence is clearly traumatising you.

**PaulatheCat:** Meow, I know I'd feel better if you took them off.

**Dean:** Do think that would help? Er, what are you doing? OoooOOOooo, tickles!

**Paralesky:** It's called doughnut therapy. It will make you feel better.

**Dean:** This icing is all sticky. I'm all sticky with icing.

*Denizens lick their lips*

**Bartlebead:** Don't worry, we will take care of that shortly.

**aeicha: **Longly. We will take care of that longly. It will take a long time...

**SeaGlassGree****n:** For the post-spanking bruising, I prescribe a custard poultice. And this lovely cushion, which I selected just for you.

**Jedi Arwen:** And plenty of massage. Possibly with more doughnuts.

*maybe-moey pokes head around door*

**ma****ybe-moey:** I have the melted chocolate and drizzling brush ready to go.

**Dean:** ? ? ?

**kniv****espast:** *pats Dean's hand reassuringly again* For those hard-to-reach places.

**SeaGlassGreen:**To the custard tub, ladies!

_up__stairs_

**Sam: **They were just beautiful, you know, just... heavenly. And I wasn't allowed to pet them. I feel... bereft. *sniff*

**Leahelisabeth **Hmmmm. You are clearly suffering from pants-stroking deprivation.

**Ciya: **No wonder you feel so dreadful. Fortunately, we can help you.

**Sam:** *looks up with hopeful puppy-dog expresssion* You can?

**Leahelisabeth:** Yes, we can. We shall allow you to stroke our pants instead. It will give you something to keep your hands busy.

**Ciya:** Tactile gratification therapy. It's very therapeutic for you.

**Leahelisabeth:** And very gratifying for us.

**Sam:** Okay, what do I have to do?

**Ciya:** First, we shall demonstrate on you...

_in the kitchen_

**Bobby:** *pours tea* So, I see the Maia high-res x-ray detector is now online at the Australian Synchrotron.

**Lampito:** Talk dirty to me, Mr Singer.

**Bobby:** That's, what, eight beamlines in operation now? An amazing piece of technology. Sugar?

**Lampito:** You fucking tease.

_FIN_


	17. fanart  THE PANTS THE PANTS THE PANTS

**COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT**

**also**

**HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY AEICHA!**

Denizens. They're depraved, but they get shit done.

Leahelisabeth has drawn some fanart of Dean and THE PANTS. It was supposed to be a birthday present for aeicha, but since I only just logged in to FFN today for the first time in two weeks (usually, I only log in if I have an update to add), the notification has been sitting in my Inbox for nearly a fortnight.

I FAIL SO HARD.

However, I hope that it's a case of better late than never, and that aeicha gets a perverted Denizen happy from it. And everybody else does, too. Because THE PANTS just make you want to be a better person. Remember that, before you start drooling on the keyboard...

Said fanart can be found at:

http COLONSLASHSLASH leah-elisabeth DOT livejournal DOT com SLASH 1548 DOT html (make sure you remove all the spaces, too.)

Ah, the Denizens, they have teh talents.


End file.
